


Acceptable Substitute

by mataglap



Series: Acceptable Substitute [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Actual BAMF Jesse McCree, Demisexuality, Denial, Ends with a bang, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Mild Power Play, Pining, Self-Denial, That's Not How Any Of This Works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: Hanzo has lived without certain things for so long that he has all but forgotten about them. McCree is a bright red exclamation mark of a reminder, and Hanzo discovers that the saying "out of sight, out of mind" unfortunately also works in reverse.Meanwhile, McCree is an exceptional liar, and the most egregious of his lies are the ones he tells himself.





	1. Celebration

The levanter cloud that sat over the Rock in the morning, covering the Watchpoint in a wet and quiet layer of grey, dissipates right before the strike team lands. The magnificent, red-and-orange sunset they're presented with instead feels like a fitting finale to the events of the day, and if Hanzo wasn't already high on the thrill of victory, his spirit would definitely be uplifted by the sight. As it is, even the most beautiful of sunsets fades against the enormity of what they had just achieved, and he thinks he could not possibly be more content than he is at this very moment, until he sees a somewhat less poetic, but also very welcome billow of a smoke cloud from a barbecue.

He is not only hungry, he is _starving_ , just as presumably everyone else on the transport. The rushed, improvised breakfast they had grabbed during the briefing had no chance to last them for long, followed by a day of intense physical and mental activity, and while the Orca's stock of dubious MREs and leftover adrenaline carried the squad through the last few hours, Hanzo decided he'd rather pass on the rations, and the adrenaline has all but dissipated by now. His stomach feels like it's about to burst out of his abdomen and wander off on an independent search for sustenance and, rushing towards his room to quickly shower off sweat and dirt, he fiercely hopes that the debriefing will be swift.

The path to the meeting room takes him past the barbecue, set up in the well-ventilated nook between the comm tower and the radar array, and he is entirely unsurprised to find Reinhardt Wilhelm already tending to it. There are only two Overwatch agents possessing an adequate level of skill in this particular form of cuisine, and only one of them with endless reserves of enthusiasm required to get to cooking immediately after spending eleven hours on a mission. The knight beams at his sight as if he is greeting an old friend, a habit that had Hanzo suspicious for weeks until he finally accepted the fact that there has never been anything disingenuous or forced about agent Wilhelm, ever. "Today was a magnificent victory, and a victory needs to be celebrated!"

Hanzo raises a hand in greeting, resisting the urge to bow.

"Mei went shopping as soon as she heard the news," continues Reinhardt, still customarily at the top of his lungs. "We shall drink tonight! And don't think we forgot you don't like beer! Mei got you something special, and I think you will like it!"

Hanzo immediately resolves not to get his hopes up. A drink of sake after the day's efforts would feel divine, but acceptable sake is not easy to obtain in Gibraltar, so he will be grateful for whatever it is that Dr. Zhou thoughtfully procured for him. "Thank you, Agent Wilhelm. I am greatly looking forward to it."

Reinhardt snorts with enough force to raise a shower of sparks from the burning coals. "How many times must I ask you to call me by my first name, my friend?"

"I will try, Reinhardt-san," he promises, to the knight's apparent delight, and he does bow this time. "Shall we go to the debriefing?"

"Let us hope Winston doesn't keep us in there for too long. The coals are almost ready!"

The meeting is mercifully short. The team remained in full audiovisual contact with the Watchpoint throughout the entire op, so all the comm and camera feeds are safely stored in Athena's archives for further analysis, and Winston visibly checks the urge to drill for details that can be, as is enthusiastically agreed to the accompaniment of several growling stomachs, discussed later. Everyone leaves the room with borderline-undignified eagerness, only to pile up in the door a moment later in a grab for anything that can be used as a chair — it is not often that so many people are at the Watchpoint at the same time, and outdoor seating options are limited to concrete, stone and grass, none of them particularly pleasant to sit on when the evening dew is about to set in.

Fetching one of his own zabutons seems like a rather better idea than participating in the seat hunt and, intending to do just that, even considering bringing another one to offer to anyone in need, he nearly collides with what appears to be a huge wicker basket in the entrance to the personnel wing. After some apologies, shuffling and maneuvering, the basket turns out to be carried by Dr. Zhou, and the tiny scientist brightens considerably at his sight, another phenomenon Hanzo still has not quite come to terms with.

"Hanzo! I have something for you," she says, her Japanese still better than his own Chinese by a margin that casts shame at both him and his past tutors, and after a bit of rummaging among various bags filling the basket, produces a bottle. A beautiful bottle. A bottle that makes Hanzo momentarily speechless and unable to come up with an adequate reaction. An actual bottle of _ginjo_ , not top-shelf but close enough, and one of his favorites too — how did she manage to obtain it, here and on such short notice? He had combed the city of Gibraltar for stores offering sake and found a mere few, their stock leaving much to be desired and definitely not including anything close to this…

He shakes off the shock and bows deeply. "Doctor Zhou. I cannot accept such an expensive gift."

"Oh, nonsense," she smiles at him, all dimples, and extends the bottle to him with enough momentum that his hands twitch in an instinctive attempt to grab it protectively. "It wasn't that expensive at all. You saved so many people today, you deserve something nice to celebrate with. And please call me Mei!"

"You honor me, Mei. It must have been expensive," he argues, politeness warring with a great need to accept the bottle and cradle it lovingly to his chest. "Might I ask where you found it? I was not able to find any decent sake in the city."

Dr. Zhou frowns a little, looking nearly uncomfortable now. "I, uh— well, it wasn't actually bought in Gibraltar, and I don't know— listen. Just take it!" He does, the bottle literally thrust into his hands at a risk of dropping to the floor otherwise, and he _really_ wants to know where he can find the magical place that stocks _ginjo_ , but before he has a chance to press further for details, Dr. Zhou picks up her oversized basket and flees the scene, leaving him bewildered enough that he barely has time to shout a delayed thanks at her rapidly retreating back.

Only when he is in his room and rinsing his sake set does it occur to him to check the bottle for labels. The price tag is thoughtfully ripped off, but the still visible part of the sticker reads _Gerry's Wines and Spirits_. Not a local store, then, as he does not recall seeing any such name among the ones he had visited.

A brief search finds exactly one such store. In London.

It would perhaps make sense if Dr. Zhou — Mei — had been part of the King's Row intervention team today, which she decidedly had not, and he spends another minute fruitlessly trying to understand the situation, until his body reminds him that he is tired, hungry and not at his intellectual best, and that he should not look a gift horse in the mouth and get back to the barbecue before his stomach cannibalizes itself.

* * *

Sat mostly comfortably in a patch of sparse yellowed grass near the wall of the comm tower, food settling in his stomach and _ochoko_ in his hand, the taste of good sake in his mouth and the slight buzz already kicking in, Hanzo concludes that this manner of celebrating victories is quite acceptable.

If the younger part of the agent roster (plus Reinhardt) could be persuaded to do away with the loud music, the celebration would be even more pleasant, but even Hanzo has to admit that the caliber of the event justifies some extravagance. It's been half a year since the recall, and barely three months since he decided to follow his impossibly-alive brother's foolish quest for heroics, and in these months, despite his conviction of the contrary, against all reason, Overwatch has actually achieved things. Good things. So many good things that, loath as he is to admit it, Hanzo is potentially inclined to think — carefully, and with a heavy dose of disbelief — that he might have found beginnings of what he had thought irrevocably lost: honor and a purpose.

"Feels good, doesn't it," murmurs Genji at his side.

"It does," he admits quietly, then realizes his error and raises a hand in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable. "Do not—"

Too late. "I _told_ you so," says his brother, every syllable oozing satisfaction, and Hanzo has to put considerable effort into keeping his face impassive and not rolling his eyes like a child.

"Stop gloating. It does not become a hero."

"Not gloating, merely pointing out that I have been right about this, and you have been wrong. We wouldn't have made it to the Underworld in time without you and your dragons. You saved many lives today."

"I merely _helped_ save them."

Genji waves a dismissive hand. "Semantics. You wanted honor and redemption, so here they are. Not even you can deny this."

Hanzo finally caves in and rolls his eyes. "Must you always have the last word?"

"It's a family trait, brother." Genji sets his _ochoko_ back on the tray. "I want more of these little sausages. If I leave you alone for now, are you going to immediately find an excuse to brood?"

"I will try to restrain myself," replies Hanzo drily. Genji chuckles, gracefully rises from his seat and walks over to the rest of the group, where Reinhardt is handing out another batch of barbecue with the air of a master of ceremony. For a brief moment, Hanzo lazily wonders why McCree, the self-proclaimed lover of all things barbecued, has not joined him in tending to it, and the answer presents itself immediately in the form of the man himself, piloting a hovercart piled high with mesh sacks of firewood.

Lúcio's music drops to frequencies low enough that Hanzo can feel it vibrating through his sternum. He remembers this sensation from many years ago, from the time of Genji's music shows and club escapades, and it had never been particularly pleasant, but now somehow it feels harmonious rather than jarring, energizing without shocking, and it banishes the beginnings of food-and-alcohol-induced drowsiness in yet another proof of Lúcio's strange talent. Hanzo sets the cup down and stretches, his stomach silenced, but not quite filled, and he is just about to join Genji and rectify that fact, when McCree brings the cart to a halt right in front of him and starts pulling his overshirt off.

"Why do you want to build a bonfire when we already have a barbecue?" he asks, curious, watching McCree's customary struggle with the left sleeve. "And where did you get the firewood from?"

"Asked Mei to grab some when she told me they were going shopping. And as for why, one word: s'mores." McCree raises a smaller bag, currently dangling off his right elbow. "Can't have s'mores without a fire. Besides, we've got music, folks might wanna dance, an' dancin' around the barbecue just doesn't have the same magic to it."

From the assortment of plastic chairs, boxes, blankets and other improvised seating arrangements around the barbecue comes a chorus of whoops of delight and several exclamations indicating excitement about the dancing, the s'mores, or both.

McCree nudges the brim of his hat up and inspects the area critically, turning slowly on his heel, until his eyes fall on Hanzo and he frowns. "You may wanna move, partner. Ain't no better place to start the fire than right here, and the breeze is gonna pick up soon. Wouldn't want you to get a lungful."

"I do not mind," says Hanzo mildly, standing up with the _tokkuri_ cradled to his chest and realizing, somewhat belatedly, that he does not know where to relocate. Joining the loose semicircle of other agents does not feel like an option, and it is not even that he thinks himself unwelcome — there has never been any outward hostility, and most of the unpleasantness dissolved in the second month of his employ — but in situations like this, amongst people who, for the most part, have known each other for years, he does sometimes feel like he is intruding upon a family. The level of familiarity between the agents is truly American, and Hanzo still finds it difficult to adjust to the utterly informal way everyone addresses each other, regardless of rank, experience or duty.

He ends up on the staircase leading to the roof of the radar array, close enough to the festivities to not feel excluded, but far enough to remain an observer rather than a participant. McCree builds the bonfire with the speed and efficiency that are pleasant to watch, and Hanzo's choice of seating immediately proves strategically sound as the first clouds of spark-infused smoke flow right over his previous location and towards the sea. The fire provides an additional level of protection against attempts to get him involved in conversations or, worse yet, dancing, and he leans comfortably against the wall, stretches his legs and sips the sake, blessedly undisturbed.

"Watchin' from the shadows, like a true assassin," drawls McCree, crouched in front of the fire to critically inspect his handiwork. In the rapidly falling darkness, his silhouette against the flames makes Hanzo think of old western movies; if he squints to remove the background, all that's missing from the scene is a horse, saddlebags and guitar music instead of Lúcio's beats. "Somethin' tells me you're not gonna join Lena and Mei."

Behind the fire, next to Lúcio's holographic set, a widely smiling Dr. Zhou seems to be teaching agents Tracer and Lúcio the moves to a dance Hanzo does not recognize.

"A very astute prediction," Hanzo confirms, pouring himself another cup to the sound of McCree's signature chuckle.

McCree may be joking, but the remark is indeed true — the position he subconsciously chose is perfect for observing others without being seen, the growing flames and the shadow of the radar array making him all but hidden, while he himself has perfect view of all the other agents. The most loudly happy group is centered around Lúcio's set, consisting of the DJ himself, agents Tracer and Zhou, and a comm unit in teleconference mode set up on a stack of cardboard boxes; the angle of the holodisplay makes it impossible to see the person that Lúcio is currently animatedly talking to, but it is most likely his Korean celebrity friend. Hanzo knows that after a joint operation with the MEKA force there has been talk of her cooperating with Overwatch in some capacity, as official as it can be while they are formally subcontractors of Lucheng Interstellar, and while he likes the girl, fierce and bright, he does not relish the thought of fighting alongside teen soldiers. It stirs up memories better left buried, and he does just that, chasing them down with sake to ensure they stay that way.

At this rate, he may have to go back to his quarters to refill the flask. Normally Genji would already be at his side, stealing his alcohol and making misguided and irritating attempts to convince Hanzo to socialize, but Dr. Ziegler chose to spend the night on base instead of returning directly to her hospital, and so, naturally, Genji is sat crosslegged so close to the doctor he might as well be directly at her feet, and Hanzo can drink in peace.

* * *

He does end up journeying to his cabin to fetch more sake. It is mostly a strategic retreat, since at Hana Song's request agent Wilhelm starts telling an already embellished story of their London success, and Hanzo does not feel like attempting to explain the existence of his spirit guardians, especially not to an unconfirmed ally over a comm link of unknown security. He lingers longer than needed to make sure any attempts at interrogation are thwarted, and when he does return, he finds that not only the talking has ended and the music has begun anew, but that most of the agents have clustered around the now happily crackling fire, roasting marshmallows with a wide variety of improvised tools.

McCree, rationing s'more ingredients from his seat directly between the staircase and the fire, glances back at Hanzo's reappearance and hands him a length of mostly-straightened wire with a marshmallow already impaled on it. "Chocolate and crackers are right here. Help yerself."

Hanzo swipes another marshmallow and squats in front of the fire long enough for both to melt, then grabs about two times more chocolate than normally required and retreats back to his secluded spot. Putting everything together without a plate turns out more difficult than expected, and as he attempts to avoid smearing his clothing with marshmallow or chocolate or dropping either of them to the ground, a shadow falls across his lap.

"Obscuring the light does not make this any easier," he grouses, looking up.

McCree reaches out, a round object in his hand. "Somebody's got a sweet tooth." His expression is entirely hidden, his body a black silhouette against the contrasting fiery backdrop, but Hanzo can hear the smile in his voice clear enough. He accepts the paper plate without a word. "I'd've given you one if you didn't run off so fast. Like a dragon to his hoard."

"It has been years since I have had these," mutters Hanzo, immediately nibbling on the sugary treat and too content to react to the teasing. "I might have gotten a bit impatient. How did you find the ingredients on such a short notice?"

"Bought'em in London. Didn't trust local stores to have proper graham crackers. May I?" McCree indicates the stairs with a jut of his chin, and Hanzo reluctantly puts the plate down to move a step higher and take the sake set with him.

McCree sits below him, to the side, and leans against the wall, relaxed, right forearm rested on his knee. A bottle of amber liquid — probably whiskey — sways gently between his fingers. McCree does not usually talk much, especially when drinking, a trait that makes him one of the more tolerable agents around here, and Hanzo finds that he does not mind the company.

In the distance, Dr. Ziegler laughs at something Genji just said, and multiple voices cheer at agent Tracer's excessively energetic dance to the beat of one of Lucio's songs.

"Sake?" Hanzo inquires politely, reaching for the _tokkuri_.

"Nah, thanks. Got my own poison right here." McCree sloshes the half-full bottle in a brief demonstration, still looking towards the fire. "The sake any good?"

"It is one of the best I have ever had," he says honestly. "Dr. Zhou procured it for me somehow. I must think of a proper gift in return."

McCree chuckles. "I'm sure she's happy enough knowin' how much you appreciated the gift. Well deserved, by the way. Good job today."

Hanzo scoffs at the unexpected turn of conversation. "I did what was expected of me."

"Uh, I'm pretty sure nobody expected a pair of magical dragons." McCree turns to the side, stretching long legs as far as the step allows and leaning fully against the wall, propping the bottle up in his lap. At this angle, the fire partially illuminates his face and a wide, smiling mouth, but his eyes are still hidden in the shadow of the hat. Hanzo's initial disbelief at the information that McCree used to work in the black ops had dissipated perhaps a week after meeting the man, the realization that the hat purposefully and efficiently kept his expression hidden being only one of the many reasons.

"Fine. I did my duty, then." He takes a mouthful of sake, hoping his scowl will deter any questions. Attempts to explain his bond with the dragon spirits, especially in English, never end in anything less than profound irritation on his part and equally profound confusion on the part of the person asking the question.

"Well, good job doing your duty, then." McCree raises the bottle to his lips and takes a long swallow. "You can't take a compliment to save your life, can you?"

"What is your point, McCree?"

"Point? There's no point. Just impressed, is all. You probably saved my hide, too, or at least spared me some new scars for my collection. And," McCree turns to look at him, his features finally visible from under the damnable hat, "this fake humility doesn't suit you, Shimada. The way you brag about your aim, I'd've thought you'd take the praise and demand more."

Hanzo allows himself a smirk. "That is because my aim is worthy of bragging."

McCree's eyes gleam with reflected fire. "And savin' potentially thousands of lives ain't? Just take the damn compliment, and forward it to your beasties if they're the kind that can understand it."

Hanzo leans forward a bit and sticks a warning finger in McCree's face. "These are ancient dragon spirits you are talking about. You should treat them with respect."

"Ain't never been a respectful sort." A flash of teeth in the darkness. "So can you talk to them? Do they have names?"

Hanzo frowns, focusing through the hazy warmth of alcohol, sugar and fire. "I… cannot talk to them, but I can communicate. I can open my mind and share my thoughts and emotions, and beckon them to come aid me. But I do not know what they think. What I sense from them is only my own feelings, magnified tenfold. And… if they do have names, I have no means to learn them."

"So what do you call'em in your head? You must've named them _somethin'_."

"Ancient Guardians is an appropriate form of address," he says, unable to control a wry smile at the memory of the names he had tried to give the dragons, long ago, back when he talked to them and tried his hardest to make them talk back.

McCree nudges the brim of his hat up, grinning widely. "I call bullshit, I can see you're hidin' somethin'. I'm a patient man, I'll get these names outta you someday, Shimada."

Hanzo responds with a scoff and concentrates on finishing up his s'mores and licking his fingers clean. McCree falls silent, too, and when Hanzo raises his eyes from the mournfully empty plate, he has turned his head away, back towards the fire.

"I wasn't there for the talks, for obvious reasons," he starts, voice entirely serious now, "but from what Lena tells me, the MI6 woman didn’t even pretend, she straight up asked for the help of Overwatch, not Lucheng Security or whatever our cover name is these days. We're not only doin' good things, we're makin' a good name for ourselves. I didn't think we'd get that far when I answered the recall, and yet here we are, and you're helpin'. So: thanks."

"You know the reason I came here," says Hanzo, blunt.

"I do," replies McCree slowly, still staring at the fire. "And I bet you didn't think much of us when you did, so thanks for stayin' and lendin' a hand."

Getting another s'more seems like a good way to escape the uncomfortable conversation, and Hanzo grunts and makes a move to stand just as McCree turns towards him and raises the bottle in an invitation to toast, and then there is nothing he can do but refill his cup and raise it in an answer.

"To more reasons for celebration."

"To redemption."

" _Kanpai_."

" _Kanpai_ ," echoes Hanzo.

For a while, they sit in easy silence — if it can be called silence, with the rhythmical _thump-thump_ of Lúcio's bass and shouts and laughter coming from behind the flames. McCree stands up once, to fuel up and adjust the fire and deflect invitations to dance on the basis of being too drunk for fancy moves. Hanzo is almost sure he is purposefully exaggerating the light sway to his movements, as he has seen McCree drink way more than this and remain stone-cold sober.

On his return, McCree pulls out a cigarillo with a questioning look, and Hanzo nods: he doesn't mind, and the breeze should take the smoke away before it becomes bothersome. McCree takes a puff, exhales, leans back against the wall, closes his eyes and pulls the hat lower over his face. "Say, I got a question for you. On a scale of one to ten, how murderous are you likely to turn if I ask you somethin' you don't like?"

Hanzo chuckles. "Plied with good food, sake and sugar? Four at most."

"Alright. Since the odds are in my favor, here's the deal. Can I blow you?"

Hanzo freezes. Carefully puts away the _ochoko_. Stares at McCree, whose face is still mostly hidden by the hat, lit up only briefly by the ember of his cigar.

"What?" he manages finally, voice high with incredulity.

McCree tips the hat back to look at him this time, dark eyes glittering under the brim. "I'm pretty sure there's no way to misinterpret what I just said, but if you really want me to, I can come up with some synonyms. Might be a mite colorful though."

Hanzo stares at him, at a complete loss for words.

"I meant," clarifies McCree helpfully after a long moment, "would you be up for me sucking your di—"

"I know what you meant," hisses Hanzo. "I just cannot believe your…"

"Audacity?" supplies McCree, grinning widely now. "Yeah, you're not the first person to tell me that. So, interested? It'd make for a nice ending to the eve—"

" _No_ ," he interrupts angrily, scowling at the tone of his own voice, unsteady with surprise and not quite as harsh as he meant it to be.

McCree's grin falters and disappears; he nods and pulls the hat back over his eyes, lifting the cigarillo to his mouth. "Alright. Suit yourself."

Is he going to just— leave it like this?

"Do you often proposition people at random?" demands Hanzo disbelievingly, wondering if the numbness he is feeling comes from the alcohol or the shock.

McCree exhales a thin cloud of smoke, face still hidden. "I got it, you're not interested, no need to be a dick about it." He stands up smoothly, with no sway to his movements, pretended or otherwise, takes a swig of whiskey and tips the hat at Hanzo. "I'll be off, then. No hard feelings. G'night."

Before Hanzo can form a coherent response, McCree is gone.


	2. Frustration

Hanzo wonders blearily, hunched over a cup of coffee, whether there is a word in one of the world's many languages for the particular feeling one often experiences in the morning after a party, this mix of resentment and surprise at everything being exactly as usual, despite decidedly unusual things having happened the night before. He's had enough alcohol to suffer from a moderate hangover, but not nearly enough to not vividly remember the conversation with McCree, and he is definitely not looking forward to the awkwardness that is bound to happen now.

The Watchpoint is quiet. Winston's and Dr. Zhou's mugs are missing from their usual spot, which means the scientists have already disappeared into the lab to work on Winston's latest research contract. Agent Tracer has undoubtedly taken off hours ago — no amount of world-saving could make Dr. Ziegler miss another day at work — and with Gothenburg being more or less on the way, agent Wilhelm has presumably departed as well. Genji usually meditates up in the nature reserve at this hour, and McCree…

Hanzo winces and rubs his temples. McCree's daily cycle is quite similar to his own, and he is likely to show up in the kitchen any minute now. Plagued by a headache after a short night of restless sleep, he is not feeling up to the task of rejecting any more advances, or dealing with awkward apologies, or suffering through charged silences, or whatever other unpleasantness McCree's complete disregard for social norms might bring upon him today.

As if summoned, the sound of very distinctive footsteps comes from the corridor; Hanzo tenses up instinctively, a piece of tofu halfway to his mouth, then forces himself to relax and braces himself for the inevitable.

"Mornin'," says McCree from the doorway and makes a beeline for the coffee pot. Hanzo waits, staring unseeing at his half-empty bowl of miso. Nothing happens. The only sounds reverberating through the kitchen are the clanking of dishes and the hiss of the coffee machine, every noise distinct and uncomfortably loud in the silence. The fridge door opens, then closes. There's an unmistakable _thud_ of the sticking silverware drawer. In Hanzo's peripheral vision, McCree sets the coffee on the table, sticks a spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth, drops into his usual seat and opens a datapad.

Still nothing.

Hanzo risks a surreptitious glance. McCree is frowning at the datapad, the spoon in his mouth moving slowly up and down. He pulls it out, sticks it into the yoghurt cup without taking his eyes off whatever he is reading, and reaches blindly for the coffee. Even his bedhead is just the same as usual, barely-combed, too-long hair flattened on one side and sticking out on the other. For a wild moment, Hanzo wonders if he actually dreamed everything up — but no, he does not ever have dreams this vivid. He remembers the events of the previous evening in clear detail, down to the color of McCree's fire-lit eyes and the irreverent way he spoke about his dragons. Surely McCree didn't get nearly drunk enough to forget everything that happened? Perhaps he is ashamed of his alcohol-induced crude proposition and pretending that nothing happened to save his face?…

McCree snorts at whatever he just read, puts the datapad down, reaches for the yoghurt and stops momentarily, noticing Hanzo's stare. Hanzo does not let himself flinch. He looks away slowly, in exaggerated disinterest, and picks up his forgotten miso. If McCree wants to act as if the whole situation never happened, he can be generous enough to go along with it. Not only do they temporarily share the same accommodations, but they have to work together for the foreseeable future; the less unnecessary awkwardness between them, the better.

The uncomfortable hyperawareness of McCree's presence does not go away, though, and it only intensifies when Hanzo gets up to wash his bowl and get a refill of the coffee. There are no helpful reflective surfaces in which he could check whether the crawling feeling of being watched is true. McCree might be reading his datapad, or he could be staring at Hanzo's back — or he could be eating his breakfast in peace, having long forgotten about the inconsequential drunken offer, and Hanzo could be obsessing about something entirely imaginary. He huffs, annoyed with himself, puts the clean dishes back in their places on the shelf and turns around, ready to forget the entire event, leave the kitchen and proceed with his day, and he almost makes it to the door when McCree's voice rings out behind his back.

"If you're wondering, the offer still stands when I'm sober."

Hanzo stops dead in his tracks, then slowly turns around. McCree's looking at him with a perfectly neutral expression, as if discussing the weather, and at the sight of Hanzo's glare, he raises both palms defensively. "Saw you lookin' and thought I'd clarify it wasn't the booze speakin' yesterday. I know you're not interested. Topic's now closed."

"Why?" demands Hanzo, angry all over again and forcing himself to relax the grip on his mug before it shatters. "Why would you ask me something like that?"

McCree blinks and shrugs. "Why not? Maybe I just like you and want to do you a favor."

"You _like_ me," repeats Hanzo slowly, every syllable dripping with cold disbelief.

McCree smiles, unfazed, into his coffee cup. "Hey, even the biggest of assholes can have someone who likes 'em. Like your brother, King Douchebag of Blackwatch, the First of His Name. Granted, I was about the only one who liked his dumb edgy ass, but I still did, despite his best efforts to the contrary."

This is not the time nor place to talk about Genji, so with some difficulty, Hanzo files that piece of information in the back of his mind for later investigation. "Did you just call me an asshole?", he says instead, incredulous, putting the mug back on the table and squaring his shoulders, even as he realizes it is an empty gesture — he will not pick a fight with another agent, no matter how badly goaded.

McCree raises his eyebrows, turns to face him fully, rests an elbow on the back of his chair and lifts a hand with fingers folded. Sticks the index finger out. "Yakuza." Middle finger. "Mercenary." Ring finger. "Kinslayer. Definitely not the nicest person I know. I wasn't talkin' about you specifically, but yeah, I'm afraid you qualify."

"I have killed people for insulting me to my face before," says Hanzo coldly through gritted teeth.

McCree wordlessly straightens his pinky with eyebrows raised even further. " _Anyway_ ," he says pointedly, "it don't matter why, since we're done with the subject, and I dunno 'bout you, but I'm about ready to get on with my day."

Hanzo, still immobile, watches him heap the last spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth, chase it with the dregs of his coffee, stand up and haphazardly stick the mug into the dishwasher. He walks right up to Hanzo and for a moment Hanzo expects him to aggressively bump into his shoulder as he's brushing past, but instead McCree slows next to him, and for the first time his expression morphs into something close to apologetic.

"Didn't mean to upset you," he says, kinder than before. "Just forget I ever said anything. I'll see you 'round, Shimada."

Hanzo is left alone in the kitchen, feeling like he's twenty-two again, having just let Genji walk out on him after getting the last word in an argument.

* * *

The expectation that McCree will surely avoid him after that last spat in the kitchen turns out as false as every other expectation he has ever had about the man. They run into each other while cleaning up after the party (McCree nods at him and goes back to picking spilled popcorn out of the grass), then again in the firing range (this time he gets a distracted "Howdy" as McCree reloads his gun, lightning-quick, and places six shots in three different targets, head and center of mass, without taking any visible aim). When Hanzo goes out to the reserve for a run, McCree is sat together with Winston in front of the large screen in the rec room, wearing a black shirt in place of his usual plaid, talking animatedly — or arguing? — with an omnic in an immaculate, expensive suit and a tie that looks like a Charvet to Hanzo's trained eye. When he comes back, McCree is in the same room, plaid shirt back in place, sprawled out on one of the sofas, chewing on a pen and typing rapidly on a holokeyboard, a datapad propped up on his knee.

The day is no different than any other, and yet Hanzo cannot help but _notice_ McCree every time he crosses paths with the man. They both live in a small military research station, one out of necessity, the other out of lack of motivation to change, and they have been running into each other during normal daily activities for weeks now, if not months, but the newly acquired, unwanted hyperawareness of the man's presence is unexpected and infuriating, and at the end of the day Hanzo is exhausted with trying not to pay attention and not to think about it. He keeps expecting McCree to pay equally undue attention to himself, and gets progressively more irritated every time he does not see any indication of that happening. Every time he encounters McCree, the man is busy with something and giving no sign of even registering Hanzo's presence. No furtive glances. No strange expressions. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, as if McCree really makes a habit of randomly coming on to people around him like it means nothing, and forgetting about it five minutes after.

At the end of the day, Hanzo goes into the gym and lays kicks and punches into a training dummy until his muscles burn enough to take his mind off things, then staggers into the communal shower, from there straight into bed, and falls into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The King's Row operation makes the news on several popular channels, and all of a sudden the world starts talking about Overwatch again. Naturally, officially Overwatch doesn't exist, so descriptions used vary depending on the particular news source's reader base and its opinion, ranging across the spectrum from 'rogue agents' to 'returning heroes'. Winston and, more importantly, Athena do their best to obfuscate the details, so for the time being they are spared from the press knocking on anyone's door, but everyone agrees it is only a matter of time.

The officials of Numbani contact Lucheng Interstellar with a offer to hire their "security contractors". A Mexican power company somehow obtains and calls Winston's direct phone line with an urgent request for help against a suspected terrorist attack. Lúcio calls with the news that his young MEKA friend is requesting a formal job interview. After two missions in one week, it becomes painfully apparent that they need an agent rotation, a real base of operations, basic support personnel to keep things running, and above all a source of funding, and by means of a day-long five-way teleconference, it is agreed that for a start, Watchpoint Gibraltar could be converted into an HQ that would last them for the foreseeable future.

Their newly acquired contact within MI6 recommends a vetted construction crew, who arrive two days later in a nondescript civilian aircraft.

On the first day of loud and varied sounds of destruction carrying through the facility, Hanzo runs into three of the workers dragging assorted pieces of furniture out of the old shuttle crew quarters. The tallest one is bent over what looks like a military-issue bunk cleaved in half, struggling to pull a semi-loose element off, and Hanzo indulges in a bit of appreciative ogling, right until he comes to a sudden and mortifying realization that the man is McCree himself. McCree straightens, gives the mangled metal a good kick, rests the bionic hand on his hip and sticks what looks like a long splinter of wood between his teeth. Hanzo averts his eyes from the dark stains of sweat on his dirty t-shirt, takes a steadying breath and walks past, saying a polite 'hello' in the general direction of the group. He gets two hellos and a perfectly neutral 'howdy' back, and spends the next twenty minutes of his training attempting to purge the image of a sweaty, disheveled McCree out of his head.

In the evening, at Winston's invitation, the workers appear in the mess for dinner. They are a cheerful and surprisingly quick-witted group, all five of them, and from the conversations that Hanzo shamelessly eavesdrops on, he learns that McCree volunteered to help with the cleanup out of sheer boredom. Both Dr. Zhou and Winston enthusiastically follow McCree's example and offer assistance on the following day, and after Genji walks into the room and immediately gets himself roped into ripping out the old wiring in the crew quarters, Hanzo has no choice but to offer his services as well.

Halfway through the next day, Hanzo begins to wonder if there is anything McCree would _not_ attempt to chew on. At some point during the hours they have spent tearing the barracks down to bare concrete he has, out of sheer sick fascination, started keeping a tally of everything he has witnessed McCree stick into his mouth. Apart from the customary cigarillo, there has been a cigarette (offered by one of the working crew), a pencil (during an argument over the electrical schematics), a lollipop (offered by Dr. Zhou), a teaspoon and a toothpick (during lunch), a length of insulated wire ripped straight out of the wall, and a piece of wood of unknown origin. Hanzo suddenly remembers seeing McCree hold a bullet between his teeth when cleaning his gun and wondering if he would have put an arrow in his mouth if he had been allowed to hold one, and it takes all of his concentrated force of will not to dwell on that mental image, or think about the offer he has rejected the week before.

That night, he wakes up after two hours, restless and half-hard, and steadfastly refuses to acknowledge his arousal or do anything about it, tossing and turning in the darkness until exhaustion finally drags him under.

* * *

On the second day of the renovation agent Tracer flies in.

On the third day, at lunchtime, she and McCree drag everyone else into a teleconference behind closed doors and with a triple layer of encryption, and confirm Hanzo's vague suspicion that the construction workers are obviously way too smart to be mere physical laborers.

"At least two of them are faking the accent," says agent Tracer, sounding like she is personally offended by that fact. "Possibly all of them, but Mike and Tom I'm positive about. These two have never been working class in their lives. I can't believe you bought that crappy excuse of an accent. You know _me_!"

"We think they're MI6," cuts in McCree. There's a piece of straw bobbing in the corner of his mouth. "Definitely not just construction workers, but they do seem to know what they're doin', so might be associates rather than agents. I'm guessin' they're here to evaluate us. Athena?"

"At Agent McCree's request, I ran detailed scans of their onsite inventory and the work they have done so far," says the AI immediately. "I have detected no weapons, armor or communication equipment outside of standard comms. The changes that have been made to the secondary crew quarters appear to be in line with agreed schematics and structurally sound. Nothing outside normal parameters."

"If you ask me," concludes McCree, "they're tryin' to figure out whether we're a potential ally, or a potential threat."

Winston hums, rocking back and forth in his wheel. "I'm almost inclined to let them continue. As long as they're not attempting to sabotage us, their help is welcome, and I don't think we pose any threat to the UK, or any entity on a country level, really. A cooperation with British intelligence would be invaluable, especially when we're established enough to start the talks with the UN. There is only so much we can do until our cover becomes too obvious to ignore, and we'll need all the help we can get before they bring the Petras Act down on our heads."

McCree nods along. "The question is, do we pretend nothin's out of the ordinary, or do we tell 'em to stop insultin' our collective intelligence? Me, I'd keep things as they are. If they're MI6, they'll eventually figure out we've figured 'em out, anyway, and they'll pretend not to notice we're pretending not to have noticed, we'll get a renovated HQ, they'll get their data, everyone'll be happy. Just keep all the comms encrypted and deep scan everything they bring in and out of the Watchpoint, and Athena needs to lay low, and maybe don't summon any magical creatures in front of those guys."

"I feel like I'm in a spy movie, and it's amazing," says Lúcio with awe.

McCree gives him a jaunty salute. "Welcome to Blackwatch."

* * *

The Blackwatch protocol for dealing with infiltration attempts by foreign agents appears to be to invite them to an evening of drinks and poker.

Hanzo, having always liked card games, does not have to be asked twice. Genji is allowed to participate on the condition that he does not wear his mask, which does not bode well for him, considering how terrible he has always been at bluffing. Neither of the scientists has the skill or inclination to participate in the game, Dr. Zhou wearing her heart on her sleeve and Winston's face too expressive for his own good, and agent Tracer joins with her usual level of childish enthusiasm. Three of the workers are roped in with only token protests, and barely four rounds and one drink in, Hanzo is already torn between massive annoyance and sheer awe.

Genji's impulse control has improved greatly, Tracer is about as bad with tells as could be expected, the most-likely-MI6 are, predictably, formidable opponents, but at this rate McCree is going to _wreck_ everyone else. Hanzo had gambled before, played _Oicho-Kabu_ and poker and various other card games with his _saikō-komon_ , family and underlings, and he had always prided himself on his unflinching poker face, but he feels that even he is no match for McCree and his terrifying prowess in this field. McCree, as far as Hanzo has been able to determine, does not have a single tell, and he honestly cannot decide whether the man possesses an absolute and iron control over his body, or whether he is genuinely immune to adrenaline and excitement, and that — the fact that he, the crime lord, theoretically the most qualified in the room, _isn't sure_ — unsettles him more than anything else. However long the round takes, whatever the stakes are, McCree sits in the same relaxed pose, with the unchanging half-smile, his movements slow and calculated, tone of voice not straying for even an eighth of the octave from the steady, pleasant, almost sleepy drawl.

The next time McCree raises by a significant amount, Hanzo glances at the lazy curve of his smile and the hooded eyes, then at his own meagre hand, and, horrified, catches himself mid-frown. The only damage control he has left is to fold, and everyone else follows his lead.

"Ain't no shame in losin' to a former covert ops agent," drawls McCree around his unlit cigarillo, gathering the cards with the most infuriatingly condescending smile Hanzo has seen since his great-aunt passed away, the Southwestern accent so thick it could be used to hammer nails, and the subtlest of emphases on the 'former'. "I should prob'ly go easy on you guys."

"No need to, mate, it's just the luck of the draw," says Mike, face straight and voice admirably level. Tracer gets up on the pretense of fetching more ice and makes a disgusted face right behind his back, mouthing something that looks like "fucking Eton" before walking away. On her return, Hanzo finally pulls off a successful bluff, to a chuckle from McCree and a groan from Genji, and he decides to have some fun of his own.

"It is not a shame for a blue-collar worker to lose to a former yakuza, either," he says coolly, handing his cards over for Tom to shuffle. "My brother and I obviously have an unfair advantage."

McCree pauses in the middle of pouring himself another bourbon, and his eyes light up with glee. "True that. I bet the Shimadas here lost more money in poker than honest, hard-workin' folks like you earn in their entire life." Tom's Adam's apple bobs just a bit too strongly, Genji starts coughing, and Hanzo has to pretend to drop a card to the floor to rein in a grin. He bets obnoxiously high amounts the next round, and when everyone is busy rearranging the cards, McCree sends him a blink-and-you-miss-it wink.

* * *

As soon as Athena confirms that the suspected MI6 are safely back in their quarters and that no scanning devices have been left in the room, everyone bursts out laughing.

"I honestly thought he was going to clock you in the face," giggles Tracer, embracing McCree's shoulders from behind where he is still sat in the chair over his sizable stack of chips. "Did you notice how his accent changed? I swear he completely stopped pretending at about the time Hanzo said something about differences in education. Bloody upperclass cunts, I'm telling you, all of them. We should invite them to whist tomorrow!"

McCree pats her skinny arm and looks at Hanzo, smirking. "Excellent delivery, partner. You gotta work on your tells, though."

Hanzo shrugs. "I was a businessman, not a card shark, and I'm rusty. And you should work on your subtlety. There is no way they do not know now that we suspect their true identity."

"That was the point." McCree bares his teeth in a smile that is truly shark-worthy. "And as you know, I ain't really a subtle type."

Something twists warmly in Hanzo's gut at the indeed less than subtle hint. "I certainly do," he says blandly, refusing to be cowed by the challenge, and focuses on counting his less impressive, but still satisfactory winnings.

Agent Tracer frowns and looks between them, arranging empty glasses and bottles on a tray. "Did I miss something?"

"Nope," says McCree, at the same time as Hanzo says "No".

"Looks like my brother is upset with losing to McCree," says Genji, amused and teasing and completely wrong. "Perhaps he'll finally stop being so full of himself about his impeccable poker face."

"I never claimed it was impeccable, just that it was better than yours. Which was not difficult to achieve," grouses Hanzo, grateful for the accidental misdirection, "with the way you bounce in your chair when you get a good hand."

"It's okay." McCree's grin widens into positively shit-eating. "Ain't no shame in losin' to a Blackwatch agent."

"You seem to forget that I was Blackwatch too," remarks Genji mildly.

"Yeah, but we both know you skipped the part of the trainin' where they taught subtlety, and you always did think with your sword— hey!"

Genji jumps over the table in a mock attack, toppling McCree right off the chair. Hanzo watches them play fight like children to the sound of agent Tracer's bright laughter, and a cold, insidious thought slithers through his mind. Surely they have not—? He averts his eyes and busies himself with sorting and putting away the cards, and when the two of them are done laughing and rolling around the carpet, when everything is cleaned and goodnights are said, he follows Genji out of the common room.

* * *

They walk in silence, Hanzo considering angles of approach, having quickly realized that there is no polite way to ask the question that he needs answered, until Genji sighs and cuts a look at him. "Something on your mind, brother?"

"Have you two slept together?" Hanzo asks, all subtlety forgotten, and winces internally at his own crudeness. "You and McCree, I mean."

Genji stops dead in his tracks and makes an exaggeratedly horrified face. "What?! Gods, no. He's a dear friend, nothing more. What gave you that idea?"

"You just _sat on him_ ," says Hanzo accusingly. "That is not something that normally happens between work associates."

Genji rolls his eyes and raises his hands exasperatedly. "I was pretending to fight him! We are friends, it's what friends do, which you would know if you ever allowed anyone to befriend you! Listen, if you want him, he's all yours— "

"I absolutely do _not_ —"

"—but to me, he's like a second brother. Besides, he has never been interested nor available. For the most time I have known him, he has only really had eyes for one person."

"Did he?" asks Hanzo after a brief pause.

Genji hums and visibly hesitates. "It is not my place to tell you who it was, but… McCree's infatuation was a bit of an open secret. I'm afraid he received a fair amount of mockery for it, over the years, and I'm ashamed to admit I had my part in it. He did finally get over it, I think, in the end, but no, even if I had been interested, I would have had no chance. What has gotten into you, anyway? Are you suddenly trying to chaperone me?"

"I was simply curious," says Hanzo defensively. "I am not accustomed to seeing you act this way around people you work with."

"That's because the last time you saw me working with someone, I hated them with a passion," Genji replies calmly, "and these people are my dearest friends. I hope they will eventually become your friends as well."

Hanzo huffs bitterly: that is not likely to happen. "Very well. I apologize for jumping to conclusions. Good night, brother."

"And it's none of your business who I sleep with!" shouts Genji at his back.

* * *

They are getting overrun. They have been for a while, giving up meter after meter of the narrow corridor under heavy gunfire. In front of him McCree calmly keeps shooting, body set in an unflinching, perfect combat stance, legs wide, torso and gun arm a straight line, the oversized monster of his revolver aimed steadily at the doorway, cleanly putting down targets that attempt to charge through. Hanzo takes over when McCree needs to reload, but he is running low on arrows and he knows McCree is almost out of bullets, too.

"Fall back!" he shouts, letting the last arrow fly. It pins the black-clad soldier to the wall, temporarily blocking the entrance enough for them to dive through the door at their back and throw the heavy bolts closed.

There is no second exit out of this room. This is their last stand. McCree leans against the closed door and looks at him, grinning like a madman. His teeth are stained with blood from the split lip and his hat is missing. "Looks like this is it, partner."

Hanzo throws the useless quiver aside. "So it is."

McCree's eyes shine in the red light. "Any last wishes before we go out in style? 'Cause I got one, but it requires your involvement."

"Does it?" Hanzo walks up to him and carefully wipes the blood off his lip. McCree's tongue darts out and flicks against the pad of his thumb, and he nearly staggers as the adrenaline coursing through his veins converts, all at once, into lust.

"Yeah." McCree's hands wrap around his waist and pull him closer. "Remember that offer I made you?"

"I do," he whispers and tangles his hands in McCree's wild hair as the man sinks to his knees.

* * *

Hanzo wakes up with a gasp and lies motionless for a long while, staring blankly at the ceiling, frustrated and furious, waiting for his traitorous body to stop burning with forgotten need.  
   



	3. Decision

Their friends from MI6 prove they are not above petty revenge by starting the works at exactly 7 AM.

Between that, the restless nights, and missions popping up with increased frequency, Hanzo is running a real risk of long-term sleep deprivation. Two days after the poker night, they all get pulled out of bed at the crack of dawn because of an attack on a world heritage site in Greece, and the next day, they are off again to the Galapagos arcology to resolve a difficult hostage situation. The second mission goes less than smoothly, and after having to treat various wounds and contusions with limited equipment and long expired supplies available on site, Dr. Ziegler instantly takes a well-overdue leave from work to restock and upgrade the medical facilities of Watchpoint Gibraltar. The construction workers imprint on the angelic-looking doctor like a flock of particularly large ducklings, and the current renovation focus is immediately shifted to restoring and expanding the medbay.

Hanzo's hopes of catching up on sleep on the weekend, now that there is no ungodly noise before dawn, are dashed when he wakes up at half past eight, sweaty, groggy and groaning in discomfort. A quick temperature check confirms that it is indeed strangely warm in the room, so he gets up, grimacing, and brings up the local news site. The weather report informs him that an unseasonable heatwave is passing over the Strait, and his mailbox already holds an excited mail from Dr. Zhou, explaining at length where the weather front came from and how long it is likely to linger.

Whatever the reasons for the heat, the first order of business is peeling off his disgusting sleeping clothes and stepping into a cool shower. He wishes he had a window to open, but even the officer quarters he's generously been assigned don't have that much of a luxury, not in the Watchpoint, half-buried in a rockbed and not designed for long-term habitation. He has wondered, many times, whose decision it had been to give him a separate room, and the most obvious theory he initially came up with was that whoever was in charge of sleeping assignments had isolated him from the rest of the agents as a precaution. It had taken him shamefully long to realize how much of a privilege it had been, weeks until he'd overheard a discussion indicating that all other male agents bunked down in shuttle crew barracks while on base, and he spent quite some time after that searching the room for monitoring equipment, convinced that the need to keep an eye him must have been the deciding factor, and found nothing, humbled, confused and uncomfortably grateful.

The shower helps, but he is still parched and within minutes of developing a headache, so he hurriedly pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, thumbs the air conditioning on, dodges a gust of stale air from the overhead vent and leaves in a quest for hydration.

He was not the only one woken up early by the change in temperature, it seems, because the kitchen is busier than it would usually be at this hour, and with a decidedly lower than average amount of clothing present. Two of the workers huddled in a corner have stripped down to their undershirts, Dr. Zhou is dressed in actual shorts, Dr. Ziegler — a floral summer dress, and even McCree is out of his usual plaid flannel, wearing a short-sleeved, washed out henley that might have been burgundy at some point in the past. The shirt is really old, going by the state of the fabric, and it has probably shrunk a fair amount from its original size, too, judging by how tightly it hugs his torso. McCree is talking animatedly to Dr. Ziegler, narrating some story which Hanzo cannot quite hear from where he is, but which involves a lot of energetic gesticulating and makes the medic shake her head and giggle into her freshly filled coffee cup. The henley doesn't leave much to imagination, shamelessly close-fitting as it is, and it proves that McCree's usual loose shirts really don't do him justice, because it showcases the musculature of his back in a way which is worthy of an anatomical model: trapezius, deltoids, latissimi dorsi, moving mesmerizingly with every wave of his hands—

Winston's cheerful "sorry!" rings out behind his back, exposing him abruptly to the reality of the fact that he has been standing in the entrance to the kitchen, frozen in place for an undefined but definitely substantial amount of time, staring at the way McCree's muscles shift under the fabric.

His mouth is actually _watering_.

Panic propels him out of the way before he can compose himself, resulting in something between a sidestep and a jump that is a whole lot less dignified than he would have preferred, and he casts a quick glance around in hope that nobody noticed. The hope is vain. Genji, occupying one of the chairs at the table closest to the counter, bereft of the mask and most of his upper body armor, is looking straight at him, fingers of both hands steepled in a classic villain pose under his chin, and eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear under the green hair.

Hanzo swallows, decides that turning around and walking out now would only further condemn him, reaches deep, deep into his mind for the calm he desperately needs, and lets his traitorous feet carry him in the direction of coffee.

"Am I going to need popcorn?" asks Genji as he walks past, not even bothering to lower his voice.

The good doctor, ancestors bless her, saves Hanzo from having to come up with an answer. "Popcorn for breakfast? Genji, I really thought you were more sensible than that." Both her and McCree turn towards Genji, who produces his most insouciant of grins and opens his mouth to reply, and Hanzo actually considers dropping the coffee pot on the floor in order to distract them all and prevent the inevitable disaster.

"Not breakfast, of course. Hanzo and I were thinking about a setting up a movie night." Whatever else his brother has been throughout the course of his life, 'smooth liar' and 'excellent improviser' have always placed near the top of the list. Hanzo exhales, loosens the death grip on the pot's handle and goes to search for a clean mug, a task which, unfortunately, puts him squarely in front of McCree and at eye level with just as muscular chest. "Howdy," says McCree, neutral and perfectly polite, and steps away, allowing him access to the cupboard. Hanzo averts his eyes, blindly grabs the first unmarked mug he can see and retreats to the relative safety of the coffee machine. The full realization about what his little revelation in the doorway really means is hovering in the back of his mind, just waiting to pounce, and he does not want to have it here and now, while the intelligent and observant subject of said revelation is within arm's reach, and his menace of a brother is undoubtedly watching his every move.

"Movie night sounds nice," muses McCree. "You got a theme in mind?"

"Cowboy movies, perhaps?" says Genji, a picture of innocence.

McCree folds his arms. "Don't tempt me, smartass. I have a collection of classic westerns and I won't hesitate to use 'em." The move accentuates his pectorals and biceps, and Hanzo mouths a silent curse and decidedly turns towards the fridge.

" _Mein Gott_ , please don't," groans Dr. Ziegler, gracefully moving out of Hanzo's way and dropping into a chair opposite to Genji's. Hanzo can only hope she will distract Genji enough to make him stop paying attention to his brother's strange behavior. "Once in my lifetime was enough."

"This is actually a really good idea," interjects Winston, taking up most of the space at the counter while preparing his gigantic mug of tea. "Lena will be here later today with Lúcio and his Korean friend. We could begin with a team building exercise right away!"

McCree hums thoughtfully. "Reinhardt would never forgive us if we had a movie night without him. I'll give him a call, Lena could pick him up on the way if he's free tonight."

"There's no rush. We have until Thursday evening before any decisions are made about Miss Song's potential employment. We will have to get everyone together for at least one full team training, anyway."

Hanzo prepares his miso, _natto_ and fried egg on rice without letting his eyes stray away from the stove, listening to the excited chatter about Hana Song and her award-winning achievements in multiple fields. He has no intention of joining the rest, especially not with McCree wearing that accursed thing, and decides to have his meal in peace the farthest corner of the kitchen, right until his brother proves that his finely honed skill at ruining Hanzo's plans has not deteriorated at all over the years.

"Come join us, brother," says Genji, in a tone of voice that immediately raises a big red flag in Hanzo's sibling trouble detector. Reluctantly, he turns, a tray in his hands, finds himself pinned by five expectant stares, and then he has no choice but to begrudgingly sit at the only free place at the table, which of course happens to be right next to McCree. And since the seat on his other side is occupied by Winston's massive bulk, he has to sit so close to McCree that their arms are almost touching.

Hanzo prides himself on the control he has over his body. It is a magnificent tool, honed over the years of strict training, powerful and reliable, and it moves and behaves exactly as Hanzo intends it to. The hyperawareness of the man's presence flares up with full force, and it takes _all_ of that control to eat his breakfast with an appropriately neutral expression and without flinching whenever McCree's arm or leg brushes against his, radiating warmth through the bare centimeters that separate them. It is the most torturous meal he's had to suffer through since his very first dinner at the Watchpoint, and when he finally excuses himself and leaves the kitchen with the brisk gait of a man with important things to do, he absolutely seethes at the ridiculous physiological responses he cannot seem to fight off.

* * *

Training somewhat satisfies his growing urge to punch someone. Instead of suffocating in the undoubtedly stuffy gym, he takes the narrow, winding path to the reserve, to the secluded spot which Genji regularly uses for his morning meditations, and channels all the anger and frustration into his usual combat routines.

Genji appears half an hour later, fully armored and armed, and without a single word sits crosslegged on his favorite stone outcrop, sets the swords on the ground at his side, and falls motionless and silent.

Hanzo does not hold back on his account. The amount of helpless rage he's burning with could fuel a small power plant, and he throws punches and kicks and yells until electricity crackles around him and the smell of ozone permeates the air, and until he is tired enough that all he can do is drink the entire contents of his water bottle, drop flat on the grass, and glare silently at the clouded sky. The sea breeze slowly cools the sweat on his skin. Genji stirs, picks up Ryū Ichimonji, unsheathes it and starts sharpening the blade in precise, unhurried movements. The grating sound of the whetstone has a strangely soothing effect on Hanzo's frayed nerves, and he unwittingly matches his breathing pattern to the regular rasp of metal on stone. By the time the blade is sharp enough for the oiling cloth to come out, he is more or less calm.

"So, McCree," Genji says conversationally.

"No."

"Oh, very much yes, dear brother."

Hanzo grinds his teeth, puts a considerable effort into relaxing suddenly balled-up fists and prays for patience. "Whatever you are thinking of, no."

"I'm thinking of the choking sexual tension whenever you two happen to be in the same room." Hanzo turns his head to look at him incredulously; Genji drags the cloth carefully down the blade and raises it to inspect the edge. "Or vehicle. Or, indeed, vicinity, line of sight, or general area."

"I can't exactly stop him from being interested," he grumbles.

"Wait, what?" Genji sets the sword gently down next to its _saya_ , folds the oiling cloth into a neat square, then reaches for the latches of his mask. Hanzo breathes deeply and forces himself not to look away as the seals depressurize with a hiss, and Genji's scarred face turns towards him with an expression of utter disbelief. " _Him_? Hanzo, I have seen the way _you_ look at McCree. I can't even begin to describe how uncomfortable it is to see my own brother try to devour my best friend with his eyes."

Of course Genji would arrive to such conclusion. For a brief, despair-filled moment Hanzo imagines trying to explain the entire situation to his libertine brother, and he knows he has already lost, but he tries anyway. "You are mistaken. I am _not_ interested. He was the one who propositioned me in the most crude way possible—"

Genji visibly perks up. "Did he? Really? He must have gotten better at hiding these things. He used to be really, really obvious about his feelings."

"There are no _feelings_ ," growls Hanzo. "McCree got drunk, and made me a very specific and very uncouth offer—"

Genji nods and interrupts him mid-sentence again, and it's like they never aged and never fought, just like their endless arguments of old. "…Which you shot down, because you're a repressed, self-martyring, angsty broodlord who would rather take a stroll on hot coals than allow himself some fun or, gods forbid, pleasure. Am I right?"

"I declined, because I am not interested in vulgar advances," hisses Hanzo.

"And by 'vulgar', you mean asking plainly, rather than beating around the bush." Genji keeps nodding with an infuriatingly condescending smile. "Yes, that is exactly what I would have expected from you, brother. Tell me, would you have agreed if he sent you a calligraphed invitation in verse? Courted you for six weeks? Brought you a bouquet of camellias? Recited po—"

" _Stop_. I told you, I am not interested, and McCree's lack of basic manners only made it easier to refuse."

Genji rolls his eyes and picks the sword up again. "That's just pure bullshit, Hanzo, and we both know it. I have literally just witnessed the way you look at him, and not for the first time, might I add. Remember the poker night? You were more interested in McCree than your own cards."

Hanzo bristles: of course he would misinterpret that. "Watching your opponents is the _point_ of poker. Do I have to teach you again how the game works?"

"Please, do not insult my intelligence. You watched one particular opponent more than everyone else together."

Hanzo thumps his fist on the ground, frustrated all over again. "Yes, because he was by far the most skilled and dangerous, not because of whatever your degenerate imagination came up with!"

"Listen. I have seen more than enough to recognize the symptoms. You can continue to stew in your frustration and hide behind rationalizations, or you can pull your head our of your ass, engage in some basic introspection, which, I know, might just kill you, realize that you want to do terrible things to McCree," Genji makes an exaggeratedly disgusted face, "or let him do terrible things to you, doesn't matter, and follow it up with some actual action. And before you ask, neither brooding nor pining count as an action."

Hanzo decides he has had enough — they have never seen eye to eye in these matters and never will — and moves to stand.

"Hanzo, please," says Genji, voice suddenly soft enough that he freezes in place, abruptly robbed of breath, because he remembers the last time Genji used a similar tone and how he did not listen, and he can only hope that his little brother never realizes the caliber of the weapon he possesses. "There really is no reason you should deny yourself everything that could possibly make you happier."

He has to swallow hard, through the surge of old pain and guilt, before he is able to answer. "I… understand your worry, but I am nothing like you. I find no happiness in random sexual contacts, especially not with people I work with. It is pointless and unprofessional."

Genji sighs heavily. "All right. Look me in the eye, brother, and tell me you have no interest in McCree, and I swear I will never raise the subject again."

Reluctantly, he turns his head again. Looks into Genji's unusually serious eyes.

Remains damningly silent.

Curses under his breath.

In a rare display of kindness that in any other circumstances Hanzo would probably be worried by, Genji does not say anything for a while and lets him wage his internal war in peace. "I can't believe I'm giving this sort of advice to _you_ , of all people," he says eventually, "but it's really okay to sleep with someone when there is a mutual interest. Just talk to him, tell him you changed your mind, and never _ever_ tell me what transpired later."

Having received no reply, he nods once more, with finality and satisfaction, sheathes his sword and gathers his tools, snaps the visor back on, gives Hanzo a short bow and leaves.

Hanzo closes his eyes and stays sprawled in the grass.

* * *

Under the lukewarm trickle of water in his room's tiny shower cubicle, he leans against the wall and thinks.

Since he had reached maturity, finally experienced sex and found himself rather disappointed with it, he has mostly been treating it as yet another unfortunate physical necessity to be dealt with in spare time. It was never a problem for the _kumichō_ to find a willing partner in the rare occasions when the need arose, as long as he kept his expectations reasonably low, and in his exile, he usually had more pressing problems to deal with than sporadic demands of the flesh. Eventually, most of what was left of his sex drive got beaten into submission by of an out-of-necessity ascetic lifestyle, anger, guilt and sheer stubbornness, and an odd, perfunctory masturbation session has been an acceptable substitute ever since.

After McCree's outrageous offer, he has purposefully avoided relieving the tension, afraid that his mind would betray him by summoning unwanted images — the dream was already bad enough — and in retrospect, it might have been the wrong decision to make. Perhaps if he had acted straight away, it would have prevented his apparent obsession from escalating to this level. He takes a fortifying breath and lets himself imagine, for just a moment, and just as he feared, his body's response to the tentative mental image of McCree on his knees is so immediate and visceral that he shudders all over.

After he exits the shower, he finds his comm blinking with an indicator of a new message.

 ** _12:27 [_** **源氏** ** _]_** I would tell you to use protection, but no disease can possibly survive on the same base as Angela

Hanzo glowers at the comm, closes the display with a decisive click and reaches for his clothes. Loath as he is to admit it, Genji is right: he has to do _something_ to get this fixation out of his system. And once he has decided on a course of action, there is nothing left to do but get it over with as soon as possible, so he ties his damp hair up, takes a last glance in the mirror to confirm that everything is in order, and leaves in search of McCree.

* * *

Visiting McCree's usual haunts yields nothing, and just as Hanzo's newfound resolve begins to fray at the edges, he remembers about the volunteering to participate in the renovation and takes a turn towards the medbay. Sure enough, there he is, unloading a pallet of nondescript grey boxes into one of the unmarked rooms along the corridor leading to the facilities wing. He is without a hat and more importantly, he's _shirtless_. Through pure inertia, Hanzo's feet carry him forward three more paces before he stops. McCree looks up, does a double-take at the sight of Hanzo, rooted to the spot in the middle of the hallway, waves with a 'howdy' and returns to work.

It occurs to Hanzo that while he made up his mind about the offer, he did not at all think of a way he could ask about it without completely humiliating himself, and he very nearly backs off and walks away. The sight of McCree's bare torso, dusted with just the right amount of hair that narrows into a perfect treasure trail, is incredibly motivating, but also incredibly distracting, and he hesitates for long enough that McCree puts down the box he just picked up and turns fully towards him, frowning slightly.

"You okay there? Is somethin' wrong?"

Hanzo takes a steadying breath and steps forward. "I need to talk to you."

McCree raises his eyebrows questioningly and makes a "go on, then" gesture with both hands.

"In private," he specifies. "If you have a moment, that is."

"O-kay," says McCree slowly, eyes roaming Hanzo's face as if he's trying to guess his intentions. He dusts his hands off and points at the open door. "After you."

Hanzo's apprehension must show on his face, because McCree huffs out a laugh. "It's just an old storage room. More of a supply closet, really. Nobody has a reason to go there, there's no monitoring, no Athena, and I can even lock the door if you want. Or you can wait 'til I'm done, if it's not urgent."

For the intended topic of discussion a storage room is certainly better than an open corridor, and it's too late to back out anyway. Hanzo walks through the door and looks around: the place is lit by wide stripes of blue, yellow and white lights under the ceiling, and filled with large, square, beige-and-grey plasteel crates, emblazoned with the Overwatch logo and arranged in stacks of varying height. He inspects a convenient hip-high stack for hazard labels, runs a finger across the lid of the topmost box, finds it relatively dust-free, presumably due to a still functioning ionizer, and leans against it, arms folded.

The door slides shut behind them, and McCree picks up his henley from one of the crates and pulls it on. "Alright. Shoot."

Hanzo raises his chin challengingly. "Does your offer still stand?"

McCree freezes and stares at him, face blank; Hanzo forces himself to breathe evenly and stares right back. The question hangs between them for a minute that feels like an eternity, until McCree abruptly relaxes, smiles and leans against the wall, hip cocked, thumbs tucked into his belt, a picture of ease. "In general, yes," he drawls, and his crooked grin should not be having this sort of effect on Hanzo's insides, "but I'm afraid the special offer's expired. There's a price now."

Hanzo balks. "A price," he repeats stonily.

McCree's smile grows even wider. "Yep. Just a li'l thing, don't worry. Practically a bargain."

Obviously he's not talking about monetary compensation, and it does not take much to guess what exactly he expects in exchange. Hanzo sneers and pushes away from his seat, studiously ignoring the spike of heat in his abdomen and a sudden tightness in his groin; there is no price that could ever convince him to drop to his knees and debase himself before this man. "Forget it, then."

McCree lets out a short bark of laughter. "I don't mean _that_. You don't have to do anythin', all I want is a kiss. And before you ask," he adds wryly, "yes, I want it before, not after. And you're bein' awfully particular about this, by the way, for someone who wants their cock sucked."

This… he did not expect. Hanzo stops, blinks in surprise and focuses on controlling his expression — he would rather not give McCree the satisfaction of showing how badly he is out of his depth. "Must you be so crass?" he hisses to mask his shock, with what he hopes is a sufficient amount of disdain.

"Well, _excuse me_ , Your Highness," drawls McCree, completely unrepentant. "I meant to say, 'for someone who wants me to perform fellatio on their most esteemed person'."

Hanzo silently doubts his mental health, because his sane self would never be found negotiating sexual favors with uncouth Americans in abandoned storage rooms. Perhaps he has simply snapped and gone crazy? Madness would certainly explain some, if not most of the decisions he has made in the recent months. He should back out of this insanity while he still can, but he is tired of the dreams and the tension and the _want_ , and a single kiss seems — doable. "Very well," he says instead, distantly aware of his hammering pulse. "I accept your conditions."

McCree smiles strangely and pushes away from the wall in a sudden burst of energy. "Alright then. Shall we?"

"Wait. You want to do this _here_?" Surely nothing that McCree says or does should surprise him anymore — and yet. "Right  now?"

McCree stops with his hand hovering above the keypad. "Well, it's up to you, but if you ask me, there's no time like the present. Unless," he leers, "you need some time to brace yourself before I blow your mind."

"Fine," Hanzo snaps, no longer sure if he's amused, aroused or outraged. "If we do it now, at least you will stop talking."

"Can't talk with my mouth occupied," McCree agrees, locking the door.


	4. Favor

The lock engages with a beep and a click, and the finality of these sounds somehow gets rid of any doubts lingering in Hanzo's mind. The thrill he feels as McCree's hand falls away from the keypad is not unlike the one he experiences shortly before a fight, and just like before one, the concerns of his life fall into temporary insignificance, leaving him anchored in the here and now. The situation, of course, is still unquestionably ridiculous — sneaking around in unused rooms to indulge in carnal activities is something he might have expected from himself perhaps twenty years ago, and not as he is about to officially enter middle age — but at least he is not helpless anymore, he has a plan and a solution in sight, and even with his incredible capacity for denial he cannot claim he is not looking forward to the promised pleasure.

An unwanted memory of the time he last sneaked around with a lover threatens to follow in the wake of that thought and he shudders, banishing it immediately back to whatever dark corner of his mind it came from. He will not think about _that_ now. Not ever, if he can help it. It is too late for thinking now, anyway, the decision has been made, the steps have been taken, and hopefully they will both walk out of here having satisfied their urges at a minimal cost to their dignity, closing the chapter of Hanzo's sudden regression to puberty for good.

McCree squints at the bright lights and experimentally presses one of the old fashioned switches. "Just tryin' to set the mood," he explains. "This light reminds me of a medbay, and dunno about you, but I spent way too much time in those to appreciate the ambience."

Hanzo snorts, leaning back against the crates. "If you care about the mood, then I think you chose the wrong location."

"Gotta work with what I've got, partner. Just because the place ain't as nice as I'd like, don't mean I can't make it as nice as I can. Unless," he pauses and glances back at Hanzo, "you prefer the lights off?"

"Leave them on. I have nothing to be ashamed of," he scoffs, distantly aware that he might be posturing a bit, and decisively burying that awareness in the corner of his mind devoted to the long-term storage of uncomfortable thoughts. "And you can cease concerning yourself with the mood for my sake. I do not care."

McCree chuckles, amused. "Was that a 'get on with it' that I just heard?"

Hanzo does not dignify that with a response and silently watches him fiddle with the switches until the blue and white LEDs finally turn off, leaving only a yellowish twilight. He is suddenly struck with a thought that it all feels quite like a thirty-second excuse of an introduction before the camera cuts straight to the action in a bad pornographic vid, and a slightly hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up from his chest, manifesting itself with a cut-off snort that earns him a quizzically raised eyebrow.

"I believe this is the most absurd thing I have done in my entire life," he confesses.

McCree shrugs. "Ain't nothin' absurd about it. I like you, I think you're hot like burnin', you don't hate me, we're gonna have a good time." There is something wrong in the offhanded way he says it, but before Hanzo can gather his mental faculties and analyze it, McCree crosses the distance between them in three long strides and suddenly he is right in his personal space, boxing him in with outstretched arms and leaning slightly to continue talking directly into his ear. "An' I promise you're gonna enjoy it. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't know I can make it good. Full satisfaction or your money back."

There's a hint of a smug smile in the honey-smooth baritone purring into his ear and together with the hot breath gusting across his neck, the brush of a beard against his ear, and McCree's body so close that he can feel the warmth radiating from him through all the clothes, it forms a combination so lethally distracting that all coherent thought instantly evaporates from Hanzo's head.

"And speakin' of money, I'd like to take my payment now, if you don't mind."

"I do mind if you keep insisting on calling it a _payment_ ," he grumbles, half turned on and half irritated, and glowers at McCree until he closes the rest of the distance, grinning, and brings their mouths together.

It's… not what he thought it would be. He is not sure _what_ he expected, actually, but this strangely hesitant, nearly chaste kiss, devoid of any aggression or invasiveness, stands in stark contrast with all the bravado and cockiness and vulgar suggestions from before. It's soft and unhurried and more of an invitation than anything else, and Hanzo surprises himself by how eagerly he accepts it. It has been _so many_ years since he last received a kiss that had any sincerity to it, and it wakes an old, dormant hunger that flares up in the pit his stomach and makes him push forward, part his lips, and lick a challenge into McCree's mouth.

The hum he gets in response doesn't sound at all disapproving, but McCree still pulls back a bit and stubbornly keeps it slow and languid, mouth curving in a smile when Hanzo, thwarted in his attempts, huffs through his nose. He's beginning to feel like he is being asked some sort of a silent question, and he focuses on trying to understand it, chasing the teasing mouth and the occasional brush of elusive tongue, until his patience finally snaps and he reaches up, holds McCree's head in an iron grip and kisses deep and hard.

McCree shudders violently and grabs his wrists, and the noise he makes sounds so much like a protest that Hanzo abruptly realizes what he is doing and pulls back, shocked and ashamed of letting his base instincts take over. "I apologize," he mutters. "I… got carried away."

Expression unreadable and eyes dark, McCree takes half a step back and stares at him for a moment. "It's okay," he says eventually, the easy smile sliding back into place. "Just surprised me, is all. I didn't expect you to get enthusiastic about it."

"It has been a while," admits Hanzo, abandoning the tattered remains of his dignity.

"I get it, believe it or not." McCree steps closer and Hanzo closes his eyes as their mouths meet again, and this time he doesn't fight the softness and slowness, gradually relaxing into it, and doesn't even realize the drawstring of his sweatpants has been unfastened until he jolts at the cool touch of metal fingers brushing low against his stomach.

"Sorry about the hand," murmurs McCree against his mouth. "Shoulda warmed it up."

"I don't mind," he replies faintly and truthfully, preoccupied with both his blood and his awareness heading south at an alarming speed, and looks down just in time to see large palms slide under his shirt.

"Can I?" asks McCree quietly, tugging at the hem, and chuckles when Hanzo responds simply by pulling the shirt off and tossing it behind him. "Someone's impatient."

"Efficient," he corrects and shivers minutely at the contrasting touch of cool metal and warm skin on his waist. "Do you have any feeling in that hand?" he asks, watching the bionic palm spread on his stomach, thumb trailing along the narrow line of hair below his navel.

"Course I do." McCree strokes the hair with the backs of metal fingers, and Hanzo unwittingly bites his lip: no matter how much he tries to keep his cool, his increasingly tented sweatpants betray the extent to which he is enjoying the attention. "I know it doesn't look like one, but it's a fully functional prosthesis. Long story short, when I lost the original, the fellow who fitted me with a replacement wasn't exactly up to speed with the achievements of modern medicine, and the look kinda grew on me over the years. I think I nearly made Angela cry when she got me a proper arm and I insisted that I wanted it to look exactly like the old one." The hands slide from his waist to rest low on his hips and play with the waistband of his underwear, and McCree's voice takes on a decidedly wry tone. "You really wanna discuss prosthetics right now?"

"I can perhaps wait until later," he agrees, as sarcastic as he can manage while flushing hot with anticipation, and leans back on his hands to give better access, both not ready for this and burning with impatience for torturous weeks of frustration to finally come to an end. It is only polite to refrain from rushing things while on the receiving end of the act, but McCree is moving so _excruciatingly_ slowly, pushing his clothing down inch by inch like he's unwrapping a gift, that Hanzo has to squeeze the edge of the box at his back with both hands, hard, to stop himself from helping to speed things along.

"So pretty," breathes McCree. Hanzo's freshly bared cock, well on its way to full attention, twitches at that, and he can't help but glance at McCree's face to find him staring down with an expression that is equal parts rapturous and hungry. He only realizes he's been holding his breath when McCree swallows visibly and licks his lips, and then all the air leaves Hanzo's lungs in an explosive exhale that renders his efforts at maintaining a calm demeanor utterly moot.

Suddenly McCree is not smiling anymore, and his dark, sharply focused gaze is disconcertingly familiar to the one Hanzo is used to seeing just before the shooting starts. "Ready?"

"Does it look like I'm not—" he starts and trails off in a completely unintentional, guttural groan, because McCree drops fluidly to his knees, unexpectedly graceful for someone his size, and without any prelude or warning takes him into his mouth, and even before he feels the touch, the sight alone is enough to take his breath away.

As it turns out, he was _not_ ready. He barely restrains the instinctual thrust and has to grit his teeth to make sure no more undesirable noises come out, because the mouth around his cock is hot like a furnace, and he is not even fully hard yet, but already twice as sensitive as he would be when pleasuring himself, and he can feel every exploratory shift of tongue in a way that does not bode well for his endurance. McCree is clearly set on making this last as long as humanly possible, drawing him in and letting him slide out with just a tiny amount of pressure, closer to teasing than anything else. Normally Hanzo would complain and impatiently demand more, but now any frustration evaporates immediately because these slow, languorous movements that should, by his experience, be excruciatingly dissatisfying, somehow feel amazing instead. The bloom of pleasure, warm and tingling, spreads through his whole body rather than stay tightly bundled in his groin, and he sighs and tips his head back: of course he should have anticipated McCree to be good at this, just as he is unexpectedly good at everything else he does.

"You are very skilled," he says, fighting to keep his voice level, and regrets the honesty immediately when the glorious mouth slides off. He looks down, ready to complain, and sees eyes glittering with amusement and an absolutely wicked smile that makes him forget what he was going to say.

"Thank you kindly." A large hand wraps warm and strong around his cock, and he inhales raggedly when McCree leans in, maintaining eye contact, gives a single, deliberate pull, and drags the flat of his tongue against the head. "Clearly I'm not at the top of my game, though, seein' as you're still capable of talking."

"I am not co- _oh_ -mplaining," he says unsteadily, breath catching at the sight, and he is definitely rock-hard now, and _oh_ , apparently the time for teasing has passed, because slow and indulgent turns into _tight_ and _firm,_ and the slow trickle of delight threatens to become a flood.

Hanzo had been pleasured in this manner in the past, but this is so immeasurably better that it feels like a different act entirely, and soon his mind is scattered all over the place, torn between bliss and shock and a strange emotion that feels a bit like gratitude. He reaches out, overcome by an irresistible impulse to touch, and slides careful fingers along McCree's jaw, through the bristles of his beard, to rest them lightly at the feverishly hot back of his neck. McCree hums approvingly at that, and Hanzo grits his teeth and hisses because now he has the urge to _pull_ , which was definitely not part of the agreement and would be unforgivably rude, and resisting the impulse while his body is slowly but surely succumbing to pleasure proves more difficult that it should be. His hand tightens convulsively on the nape of McCree's neck anyway, only briefly, before he can control himself, but it's enough to prompt a groan from the man's throat and it's that sound of all things, the unexpected urgency of it, that suddenly pushes him way too close to the shivery edge of an orgasm.

He gasps in protest, tensing involuntarily, thinking desperately _no, no, not yet, too soon_ — and only realizes he has blurted it out when McCree pulls away, takes his hand, squeezes it hard enough for the bones to creak and looks up, grinning. "I got you. Now breathe."

He closes his eyes, convulsively holds onto the edge of the crate with the other hand, swallows through the dry throat and attempts to get his lungs back under control — a mostly futile effort, because he is sensitive enough now to feel every gust of breath across the wet skin, and tremors are running through his legs, and he's so _close_ —

"Breathe. Relax," repeats McCree, slowly and with emphasis, still holding his hand in a vice-like metal grip. It's not painful, but there is a definite suggestion of possible harm there, threatening enough to reroute his body's attention, and blessedly, the feeling of teetering on the precipice finally subsides. Hanzo forces his locked-up muscles to loosen, straightens his back, lets out a shuddering exhale and opens his eyes in time to see McCree smile, bright-eyed and obviously pleased with himself. "You okay?"

"I," he tries, not recognizing the weak sound of his own voice, and clears his throat. "I think so. Yes."

"Good." McCree relaxes the iron grip on his fingers, but instead of releasing them, he rubs a thumb in a comforting circle on the inside of the palm and follows it up with a soft kiss. The gesture is unsettlingly tender, too much for Hanzo's frayed nerves, and he instinctively tries to pull the hand away, to absolutely no avail, because McCree, lightning fast, catches it by the wrist again. "Hey, none of that. I liked your hand right where it was. Put it back. C'mon."

Helplessly, he obeys the slight tug and gingerly tangles his fingers in McCree's hair. McCree hums with satisfaction, his eyelids fluttering closed at the touch, and he moves forward, lips parting, and Hanzo immediately squeezes his eyes shut and bites the inside of his cheek because he will _definitely_ come if he looks, he is not sure he won't come anyway the very moment that mouth is on him again, and he is past any shame now: he wants this to last for as long as he can bear.

It turns out to be not long at all. McCree is careful, his ministrations slower and gentler again, but he is _touching_ now, sliding hands up Hanzo's thighs and along the iliac furrows, stroking his stomach, palming his ass — and he has started making those little sounds, barely loud enough to be heard over the rush of blood in Hanzo's ears, probably unintentional but shamelessly appreciative, and above all else unbelievably arousing. Hanzo's mastery of his own body is unparalleled, but not infinite, and he cannot fight this combined assault on his senses forever; too soon he is holding on by a thread, head swimming with pleasure, muscles clenching and skin prickling, and he devotes all that is left of his willpower to controlling his breathing, in the last defense against the inevitably nearing end. McCree's unrushed, merciless rhythm somehow holds him right on the edge, though, denying that end for what feels like hours, until every pull of fiery-hot mouth feels like it's going to tip him over, but it never does, and at some point he realizes he has tightened his fist in McCree's hair in a way that must be painful and his breath has degraded into undignified half-sobbing, and he cannot think anymore, or move, or open his eyes, and he feels like he is about to _explode_ and he _needs_ to come—

"Please," he bites out finally in a shaky voice, "please, let me—" and doesn't get to finish the plea, because McCree lets out a sound that can only be described as a growl and the mouth around him tightens immediately, speeding up, and there's an unyielding metal grip around the base of his cock, and before the strangled gasp even leaves his throat, warm fingers sneak in between his legs and _press_.

The wave he's been riding crashes, sudden and violent, and he barely manages to smother the shout in time. He bites his fist and arches helplessly, terrifyingly overwhelmed, and every time he thinks it's over another spasm wrenches his body, until he's wrung out, dizzy and shaking like a leaf. McCree stands up just in time to catch him sliding down to the floor, and bodily hauls him upright; Hanzo pretty much falls into him, numb all over, and tries to remember how to breathe.

It takes an unnervingly long amount of time, if his brain's estimates on anything can be trusted in this state, before he regains his senses enough to push away, out of McCree's arms, and lean against the crate on wobbly legs, with his eyes still closed. Careful flexing of his fingers and toes proves they are still in place, contrary to the information relayed by his nervous system, and the residual shivers he cannot seem to control remind him of the aftermath of an electrocution he had the misfortune to endure a couple years past.

Hanzo is not an inexperienced man by any stretch of imagination, but none of his perfunctory liaisons in the past have resulted in anything even remotely comparable to this.

"I take it you liked it?" In the sudden silence, McCree's voice seems rougher than usual.

Hanzo's facial muscles are not an exception from his body's general failure to cooperate, so he responds to the best of his ability: with a nod and a weak grunt.

"Good. I gotta go." Before he processes that and finally forces his eyes open, there's a beep of the lock, a double hiss of the door opening and closing, and he finds himself alone, propped against a box like a puppet with its strings cut, blinking dazedly in the dim light.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbelievably, amazing people drew actual, gorgeously NSFW fanart for this chapter. <3
> 
> [Fanart by BloomingCnidarians](https://meaningless.name/i/fanart/blooming-AS-ch04.png) ([Artist's Twitter](https://twitter.com/bloomingjellies)) 
> 
> [Fanart by RowenHeaven](https://meaningless.name/i/fanart/rowenheaven-AS-ch04.png) ([Artist's Twitter](https://twitter.com/rowenheaven))


	5. Aftermath

The crescent-shaped, red indentations around the base of his thumb mock Hanzo cruelly for the rest of the day. They are starting to bruise and he has no way to hide them, neither from the world nor from himself, not unless he wears the _mitsugake_ around the base, which is obviously out of the question, or puts on actual gloves, which the weather is definitely too warm for.

Attempting to ignore the bruise is fruitless. Every time he manages to divert his attention, he either notices it accidentally or it reminds him about its existence with a sharp twinge, and he is thrown right back into the dimly lit room, rendered helpless with pleasure and completely at McCree's mercy. He does not want to think about it, definitely does not feel capable of dealing with the implications now, and paranoid that these flashbacks might somehow display on his face, he keeps well away from the common areas. The training range seems like a good idea right until he discovers that the bruise does not, luckily, impair his aim, but the ache is impossible to ignore while pulling the string; frustrated, he finally retreats to his quarters, just to realize after half an hour that he simply cannot stand sitting in one place.

Eventually, he decides to go running. The levanter brought with it a layer of heavy rainclouds that sit ominously right above the Rock, but Hanzo is not bothered — he has trained in bad weather, before, in storms and wind and snow, and rainfall so heavy that every movement felt like punching through a wall, and the comparatively mild Mediterranean weather has nothing on the monsoons of Honshu.

The first drops fall on his face right after he has left the asphalt behind and entered the narrow, steep, stone-paved path leading up to the reserve. The rain isn't torrential, but it is heavy enough to not evaporate instantly and provides relief from the oppressive heat; the patter of raindrops mixes pleasantly with the murmur of the sea, creating a relaxing background for the rhythm of his footsteps and his breath, and Hanzo inhales the petrichor, clears his mind and, alone amidst stone, shrub and rain, the bruise finally forgotten, he runs.

* * *

The impending nightfall forces him to descend towards the base. He is exhausted, ravenously hungry and soaked through to the soles of his shoes, but relatively calm and prepared to face whatever consequences of his earlier indiscretion may await. Entering the dining area dripping wet and mud-splattered is out of the question, for the sake of others and general hygiene if not his own dignity, and he also may or may not be stalling a little before having to look anyone in the face tonight, his world severely tilted off its previously stable axis. The choice between his private room's small shower with its barely-existent water pressure and the communal bathroom's much larger, but public stalls is easier than usual for exactly the same reason. There is not a soul in sight as he hurries through the Watchpoint, the insistent rain having kept everyone indoors, and no one is there to witness the proud Shimada Hanzo looking distinctly like a drowned rat, until he is safely back in his own room and crossing it in three rather undignified leaps to avoid getting mud all over the carpet. He peels off the soaked, dirty clothes, piles them into the washbasin, squeezes into the tiny shower cabin and turns the hot water dial as far it can go.

The slow trickle of water is as unsatisfying as ever, and he regrets not going for the common showers after all for exactly eight seconds, because that is how long it takes him to notice that the bite mark on his hand has begun darkening to an even more obvious purple, and that, in turn, induces a chain of mental images that, due to their inevitable consequences, he would very much not want to experience while in a public space and naked. He finishes showering with record speed and, willing the ventilation to pump the fog out faster so that he can properly dry himself, still half-hard and resolutely refusing to do anything about it, he leans against the sink and sighs.

He is more than capable of delaying the thinking about everything that happened even further, but he _will_ have to leave this room at some point in close future and face other people, and more importantly, _him_.

The first and obvious conclusion is that either everyone else he has ever engaged in sexual contact with was completely incompetent, or McCree is some sort of a savant. It is the only explanation Hanzo can come up that makes any sense. He had expected the usual minute of simple physical pleasure, followed by a vague feeling of disappointment and lingering post-coital awkwardness, but what happened — what McCree _did_ to him — was something else entirely. He still does not know how much time they spent locked away in that little storage room. He is completely unable to even estimate how long he was held in the half-delirious state of being one breath away from coming, or for how long he hung limply off McCree, attempting to regain his senses. The whole memory is a dizzy, blissful haze, and he is torn between thinking he might finally understand why so many people are obsessed with the matters of sex, and absolute terror at how _vulnerable_ he had let himself be.

He is not accustomed to ceding control of any aspect of his being, and yet he had given it all to McCree without even thinking to object. Rationally, considering his background and his life experience, he should never have allowed this to happen. Rationally, having exposed his weakness in a moment of lapsed judgment, he should now at least focus on damage control and remain wary of McCree and all the ways that weakness could be used against him… and still, despite all those sensible conclusions, thinking about it makes him shiver with something that is definitely neither apprehension nor fear.

Hanzo slumps against the washbasin, hangs his head and swears, vicious and heartfelt. In the rare and unwelcome moments of introspection, which he avoids with skill born from many years of practice, he sometimes admits to himself that he has raised ignoring unpleasant facts to an art form — but even he, the master of denial, has to recognize that for whatever reason he is not particularly upset by letting McCree have this power over him and, regardless of what the more reasonable part of his mind has to say about the matter, he would absolutely do it again. All of it.

And his own uncalled-for desires aside, he definitely should have returned the favor.

_Selfish._

He raises his head, glares at his hand once again and reaches for the towel, drying himself off with sharp, angry movements. This is precisely why he avoids looking at himself too closely, this calm and cruelly rational voice in his head, forever waiting for an opening to list all the ways in which he continually fails to be what he is supposed to be: a soldier, a leader, a brother, a decent human being, and now a sex partner, apparently, as well. Not only did he allow McCree to leave unfulfilled after the most satisfying intimate encounter of his _entire life_ , but he did not even think about it until now.

There are not many things Hanzo hates more than the sudden, bitter taste of shame.

It does not take much to guess that McCree disappeared in the aftermath to resolve his own tension, and, of course, the speed of him doing so was a direct result of Hanzo's forewarning that he would not reciprocate. In hindsight, there is no logical explanation for why McCree accepted his callous terms in the first place, except maybe for a particular fondness for being on the giving side of the act, and while Hanzo does not understand it, he knows he is not likely to. He was never the kind of person to give freely.

Perhaps McCree is a truly generous man. It would certainly match the emerging pattern of everything about him being annoyingly close to perfect.

He is saved from further grim thoughts by a loud click of the ventilation turning off. Very well, he decides: he cannot fix his mistakes, but he can still make amends. He shall repay the favor by making McCree a counter-offer, dignity be damned, and while his skill as a lover is mediocre at best, never let it be said that Shimada Hanzo does not strive for perfection. Surely he can manage to be at least adequate if he puts all of his effort into it.

It is a measure of how strange his life has become, he muses, looking through his dwindling stock of clean clothing, that it only feels a little odd to search for a pair of pants that he would not mind getting onto his knees in.

* * *

On the way to the mess hall, he's surprised to find the normally wide open door to the common room closed, muffled sounds of what appears to be dramatic orchestral music coming through. Intrigued, he pulls it open just a little bit, enough to peek in, and realizes that his attempt at stealth failed miserably when the room turns out to be completely dark, illuminated only by the holoscreen, and at least five heads turn towards the bright beam of light he has just let in from the corridor.

Of course. The movie night, which Hanzo has completely forgotten about.

The team appears to be watching an old action film: there's a lot of exaggerated screaming and people in old fashioned evening wear running back and forth across some sort of a club, and someone finds the remote and presses pause right as the camera zooms in on a presumed protagonist crawling across the floor. With some difficulty, Hanzo tears his eyes away from her mesmerizingly horrible red-and-gold sequin dress and tries to scan the room for McCree, to no avail — if he is inside, he is not close enough to the entrance to be seen.

"My apologies for interrupting," he says, taking a step back. "Please, do not pause on my account."

Unfortunately, the remote turns out to be in Reinhardt's possession, and Hanzo finds it waved at himself a moment later. "Nonsense! Come join us instead. We're showing the youngsters some classics!"

"We would have waited for you if you didn't disappear with your comm turned off," comments Genji from somewhere that Hanzo cannot see.

"I was about to have dinner, actually. Perhaps the next time." Interacting with other agents is the last thing on his mind at the moment, and Hanzo is glad to have a genuine excuse for once to bow out and leave them to their amusement, but just as he is about to close the door, another voice rings out from somewhere farther in the room.

"Come watch after you've grabbed a bite, then. I'll give you a rundown on what happened if you're quick."

There he is, sprawled on one of the sofas, a bottle of bourbon balanced on his stomach, face hidden in the darkness. For a minute, Hanzo freezes indecisively in the doorway — why would McCree want him in there? Surely he does not expect anything in front of the entire team? — and then he realizes that the movie is still paused and everyone is waiting for his decision, and gives in. There are worse ways to spend the evening than watching old action movies, after all, and he can always excuse himself on any number of reasons if anyone expects him to actually socialize. "Very well. I will be back shortly. Please do not wait for me."

Propelled by hunger and the uneasy feeling that, despite his request, the old knight might make everyone wait for his return, he reaches the kitchen at a not-quite-jog, selects one of the more palatable ready meals stacked in the fridge, and with a certain regret forgoes sake (would put him to sleep) and tea (no time to brew a pot) in favor of coffee. Agent Tracer blinks into the kitchen just as he's putting the food in the oven, confirming his suspicion that Reinhardt did not, in fact, unpause the movie. "We decided to wait for you anyway, so I'm making more popcorn," she declares and has the bag popping in the second microwave before the coffee machine has even warmed up.

Things have always been somewhat uncomfortable between agent Tracer and himself, her honest willingness to put the past behind at painful odds with her inability to mask her emotions, and usually Hanzo keeps his distance, if only to avoid seeing her struggle to treat him with the cheerful kindness she generously bestows on everyone else. Fiddling with the coffee maker provides an excellent opportunity to do just that, acknowledge her with a polite nod and stay out of her way, until both microwaves finish their programs at the same time and they have to awkwardly maneuver around each other to pull their respective foodstuffs out.

Hanzo transfers his dinner into a bowl, grabs a pair of chopsticks, a smaller bowl of dates and, on impulse, a bag of corn chips, and considers the logistics of getting all of these plus coffee safely to the rec room and through a closed door, when Tracer pulls the coffee cup out of his hand. "I'll take this for you," she says, and this time there is no falseness or strain in her friendly tone.

"Thank you," he says with an equally friendly smile.

When they get back to the room, she even holds the door open for him, and someone turns on the corner lamp so that he doesn't trip over furniture or people, and McCree scoots to one side of the sofa he's been the single occupant of in a clear invitation. The room being full of people, his other choices are a sad plastic chair at an equally sad little table in the corner and a pile of assorted pillows in front of the screen, currently utilized by Hana Song, Lúcio and apparently also Tracer, so Hanzo swallows the sudden apprehension, schools his features into perfect neutrality and takes the sofa, extending the bag of corn chips to McCree.

"Compensation for the promised summary," he explains in a low voice and collects his temporally-displaced coffee from Tracer with another quiet 'thanks'. "I am ready. Thank you for waiting for me," he says to the rest of the room, and to a chorus of _no problem_ and _you're welcome_ , the gold-sequined blonde woman on the screen is finally permitted to unfreeze.

It turns out he only missed a couple of scenes, which McCree summarizes in barely a few sentences, nothing in his behavior in any way different from the usual, and if Hanzo did not _vividly_ remember the mouth he is currently staring at wrapped around his cock only hours ago, he could easily imagine that nothing out of the ordinary ever happened between them. He only realizes that he has been staring when McCree pops a chip into said mouth, and better poker face or no, he will _not_ be outclassed in the game of keeping up appearances, so he gathers himself together, nestles comfortably into the corner of the sofa and focuses on the movie and his dinner.

"Easiest food I've earned in my life," murmurs McCree to his side, crunching his snacks.

"I thought I had missed more than five minutes, but you can keep the change," he whispers back and digs into his own meal, gratified to at least have the last word.

* * *

The woman in the tacky gold dress he initially thought to be the protagonist turns out to be a romantic interest-slash-comic relief, and Tracer has a few choice words to say about her role, which has so far been limited to shrieking at varying pitches and getting rescued by the dashing main hero. Hanzo privately agrees with her acidic, yet accurate commentary: the poor actress does not have a single line of intelligent dialogue throughout at least the first half of the movie, although he has to admit that her comic delivery improves once she is allowed to do more than scream and flail.

D.Va adds a few sarcastic remarks about the outrageously sexist cinematography of old, but it's not until the heroes find themselves in an evil lair and the plot takes a sharp turn towards the supernatural, that she really starts ranting in earnest. "Of course it's magic," she grumbles from her nest of pillows. "Why make the effort and come up with a real plot when you can just wave a hand and have magic happen? And they didn't even need this supernatural bullshit, they could have just given the psycho priest a knife!"

"That dude wouldn't scream for as long if they just cut out his heart instead," supplies Lúcio cheerfully. "It's more dramatic this way."

Despite brief temptation, Hanzo decides against pointing out that having summoned a pair of giant dragon spirits a mere handful of days ago, he is a walking proof that the supernatural does, in fact, exist. McCree shifts next to him, glancing at Hanzo and back at D.Va with an expression that suggests a similar thought process, and Hanzo kicks him in the calf just as he's opening his mouth.

Thwarted in whatever he was planning to say, McCree leans towards him instead, whispering: "What?"

He suppresses a shiver — the events of today have not helped alleviate his troublingly Pavlovian response to McCree's closeness, not in the slightest — and keeps his attention firmly on the screen. "Do not."

McCree persists, close enough for Hanzo to smell the whiskey on his breath. "Don't what?"

"Do not rile her up," he whispers back. "I want to watch the movie in peace."

"I wasn't gonna say anything."

An obvious lie. Hanzo makes a grave mistake of glancing at his face and immediately turns his eyes away, realizing far too late that McCree's grin in close proximity is yet another thing he is going to have an unfortunate reaction to from now on. "I knew you were going to comment, I saw your face."

To his chagrin, McCree repositions himself, close enough now that he can speak in a low voice and be heard through the sounds from the screen. "You watch my face often?"

"Only when I suspect you are about to do something stupid," hisses Hanzo, trying to focus on the action and not on the fact that he can now apparently recognize McCree's scent, an improbably appealing combination of tobacco and whiskey and cotton and musk, and half-convinced he must be imagining it, since he has just had coffee and a meal containing _seafood_ , both of which should severely impair his sense of smell.

McCree chuckles quietly. "All the time, then." Mercifully, he drops the subject, taking a drink of bourbon directly from the bottle and turning his attention back to the screen, but he does not move away and the damage is done, anyway: Hanzo spends the rest of the night hyperaware of his presence again, jolted out of concentration by every shift of his body, and imagining that he can somehow feel his warmth despite there being at least half a meter of distance between them.

So much for getting it out of his system.

* * *

They go through three out of four movies in the series, and then it's three in the morning and everyone agrees that the last one can wait until the next day.

"You should totally get a fedora and a leather jacket," says Lúcio after the lights turn on, gathering up the small pile of cups and empty snack wrappers that accumulated in front of his pillow nest. "The look would suit you."

"I do have a leather jacket," drawls McCree from where he is still sprawled on the sofa, absently sloshing the remnants of his bourbon around the bottom of the bottle. "And my hat is perfect as it is, thank you. I might get myself a whip, if'n I come across one."

Hanzo hovers, burning with nervous energy. If he wants to make his overdue counter-offer today, he needs to intercept McCree alone before he leaves for the barracks, but it's late and exhaustion is creeping up on him, and McCree is not showing any intention of getting up. There is a good chance he will disappear the moment Hanzo leaves the room, but there is also a limit to the amount of lingering he can pull off before it becomes really obvious, and helping with the cleaning is a good excuse, so somewhat disgruntled, he declares himself on cleanup duty, bids others goodnight, picks up his share of rubbish and accompanies Lúcio to the kitchen.

The DJ whistles a few notes of the series' music theme. "That was good," he says with satisfaction. "I love old movies. I think even Hana enjoyed herself, despite all the complaining."

Hanzo hums noncommittally, loading the dishwasher. "She did not seem at all impressed."

"But she still watched all three, and you can be sure she would have walked out if she didn't want to. Hana has a zero tolerance for bullshit policy and she's immune to peer pressure." There is a clear tinge of admiration in Lúcio's cheerful voice. "It's gonna be awesome, having her as a full member. I'm looking forward to the banter alone."

"Just as long as she does not try to stream our operations," remarks Hanzo drily.

Lúcio laughs, loud and unrestrained. "Nah, she wouldn't. She's an actual soldier, unlike you or me. I'm kinda hoping she'll make a couple of vodcasts instead. Can you imagine the free PR?"

Overwatch is still a long way from obtaining any legal status other than 'disbanded', and their cover is so flimsy that drawing any sort of attention to it would, in Hanzo's opinion, be extremely unwise, but as much as he likes Lúcio — it's impossible to dislike Lúcio — he does not have time to stay and discuss. He has a debt to settle.

The light in the common room is still on, and McCree is still on the sofa, but fully horizontal now, legs propped up on the cushions and an arm thrown across his eyes. Only now does Hanzo realize that he is not wearing the henley anymore, but a nondescript black t-shirt. "Turn the lights off when yer leavin', if you'd be so kind," he mutters when Hanzo stops in the door.

"Goodnight, guys!" yells Lúcio from the corridor.

"Night, Lúcio," McCree calls out without opening his eyes or acknowledging Hanzo's presence.

"Are you planning to sleep here?" asks Hanzo, immediately cursing himself for such a stupid opener, because it is pretty obvious that McCree intends to do just that. McCree starts a little, like he has forgotten that anyone else was in the room, and the empty whiskey bottle rolls from his side off to the floor.

"Yeah," he says groggily, arm still across his eyes. His tone is not inviting in the slightest, and Hanzo's guilt pokes at the edges of his conscience. He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders — he can fix this.

"You left very quickly today."

"Mm-hmm. Sorry I hightailed it, but y'see, I had urgent matters to take care of."

"You would not have needed to 'take care of matters' if you stayed," Hanzo points out sensibly, and McCree finally raises the arm, squinting in the bright light, sticks it under his head and arches an eyebrow.

"Really now. That's news to me, 'cause I remember you gettin' mighty offended at the very idea."

Hanzo bites his lip and looks at the carpet under his feet like it contains the words he needs to express that he is aware of his error. He is not used to openly admitting his faults. "That was before you—that was before. You should have stayed."

"Well, excuse me for not knowin' your declarations come with an expiry date," sneers McCree.

This is not going well at all. Hanzo decides to take a page from McCree's book and just get straight to the point. "Regardless, I owe you reciprocation," he says stiffly and forces himself to meet McCree's eyes just in time to see the poker face slam into place.

" _Yakuza_ ," mutters McCree with audible exasperation. "Listen. You don't _owe_ me anythin', alright? It was fun, glad you enjoyed it, consider it a gift from a friend."

"Still. It is only fair that I return the favor."

"Thanks but no thanks, buddy."

The wave of indignation is vastly preferable to guilt and awkwardness, and Hanzo folds his arms and raises his chin challengingly. "Why not? Since when do you find me disagreeable?"

McCree sits up with a grunt and shakes his head, his face still fixed with the poker half-smile. "Oh no, darlin', I would never. You're as gorgeous as usual, I'm just sayin' you don't owe me nothin'."

"You are not interested, then," concludes Hanzo, stomach inexplicably tightening despite the apparent fact that the lack of reciprocation was never an issue, his debt has been waived, and he will not have to humiliate himself. He should be relieved, and yet for some reason he is anything but.

McCree gets up, bends to retrieve the empty bottle from the floor and picks his hat up from the back of the sofa. Hanzo receives a pat on the shoulder as he walks past. "I'm not interested in debt collection. G'night."

Hanzo sees red: he will _not_ be walked out on for the third time. He balls his fists, punches the light switch with more force than necessary and gives chase. "Wait! I'm not finished!"

McCree stops, groans, and turns back towards him. "It's almost four A.M. an' I'm tired and drunk. We can talk tomorrow if you really want to, but for now please, just leave me be and go the fuck to sleep. Okay?"

There is nothing he can say to that, and he watches with a sinking feeling as McCree walks past the corner and out of sight.


	6. Understanding

There is a message waiting for him the next day.

Hanzo does not notice, at first. He sleeps until almost eleven, then lingers in bed for nearly half an hour, luxuriating in the feeling of not having to wake up in the middle of an REM cycle for the first time in what feels like at least a week. Only after thirst eventually pulls him out of his bunk, the blinking amber light on the night table draws his attention.

 ** _04:52 [McCree]_** Sorry for being an ass, and thank you for not punching me in the face for it.

Hanzo closes the message with a renewed rush of irritated disappointment — it does not escape his notice that while McCree apologized for his rudeness, he did not take back his words — and ponders it throughout the shower and then over breakfast, poking at his rice without appetite and staring unseeingly at the wall of the kitchen. Now that he is finally somewhat rested and more or less in possession of full cognitive powers, he knows that he should probably abandon the whole debacle entirely, in the name of maintaining appropriate relationships in what is, after all, technically his workplace, if not for the sake of his pride. This whole _thing_ with McCree still escapes his attempts of rational approach, though, because he wants to understand what happened yesterday night, why McCree aggressively declined his offer despite being obviously interested mere hours before, and most importantly, why he is feeling noticeably dejected because of it.

Perhaps it is because the rejection stings, the vague feeling of humiliation stings even more, and he is not used to either. Having a 'no' said straight to his face is something he has not experienced often in his adult life, Genji being the only person to have done it, repeatedly, and gotten away with it, and the number of people Hanzo invited to his bed over the years may be in single digits, but none of them have ever refused the offer.

But it's not like he should care about the rejection, seeing as he only attempted to return the favor because it was the right thing to do. After all, despite Hanzo's initial discourtesy and suspicion, McCree did singlehandedly change his perspective on sex by blowing his mind, just as he had jokingly promised. _It is his loss, not mine_ , he thinks somewhat petulantly, and then he cannot help but remember the burning eyes and wicked smiles and skilled tongue, and shifts in the chair as the memory alone makes his breath hitch. He wonders what could have happened if he did not let his pride cloud his judgment and prematurely narrow his options. Would McCree have asked for his mouth, afterwards? In the heat of the moment, would he have agreed? He nearly fell down to his knees anyway, weakened by the intensity of the orgasm; what would have happened if after regaining his senses he leaned in and rubbed his cheek on McCree's clothed cock? Would McCree have put an encouraging hand on the back of his head, maybe pulled him in…?

Would he be silent, or would he make more of those incredible sounds?

Hanzo realizes that he is tentatively constructing an erotic fantasy over the cooling remains of his breakfast, and all but flees the place, torn between shame and helpless amusement at his apparent new habit of having sexual epiphanies the kitchen.

* * *

The sudden understanding that he actually _does_ care about the rejection because he _wants_ to reciprocate — no matter how much his pride protests the very idea — resolves the first part of the mystery, and he would feel a lot worse about being drastically out of touch with his own desires, if it wasn't for  two paradigm shifts and a bout of sleep deprivation he has gone through in about a week. Having his worldview forcefully rearranged while he was otherwise running on fumes is surely at least something of an excuse.

Having taken his ill-timed fantasies out of the kitchen, he returns to his room, falls onto the bed, shoves his clothing out of the way, closes his eyes and wraps a hand around himself. This time, he does not summon vague images of past lovers or scenes witnessed in holographic porn, but he thinks specifically of McCree: his wide mouth, his dark eyes, his voice, his scent, his laugh. He recalls the events of the previous day and expands on them, groaning shamelessly, and gets as far as imagining how McCree's face might have looked if they had switched roles before he comes. As suspected, it feels far more intense than usual, and proves without doubt that there is something about McCree in particular that has caused an offhanded drunken proposition, which he would normally shut down without so much as batting an eye, to snowball into this strange, all-encompassing obsession.

There is still the second question that he needs to know an answer to: the cause of McCree's sudden transition from being openly interested to aggressively disinterested.

Attempting to figure out the motivations of others is not a new concept, considering how many times in his life correctly guessing his opponents' thoughts and plans gave him either a competitive edge, or better chances of survival. An archery practice will be a perfect opportunity to think, he decides, while providing him with some much needed exercise; he cleans up, readjusts his clothing and as he pulls on the _mitsugake_ , he pauses, frowns, and briefly runs a thumb over his self-inflicted bruise. It's not particularly sore anymore, and aches only a little when directly stimulated. A fast fading reminder of a wasted opportunity.

The shooting range being mostly useless for his purposes, he has a few targets set up in the main shuttle hangar instead, and one of Athena's drones on standby to rearrange them to his liking. Still moderately sore from the previous day's long run, he limits himself to mainly horizontal movement this time, falls into the comforting routine of aim-fire-reposition, and lets his thoughts flow freely. An hour later, he does not have any better hypotheses than that he must have offended McCree with his callous behavior, enough for the anger to overpower any attraction that prompted the offer in the first place. Hanzo is not a pleasant person and he is at peace with this knowledge — he was not raised to be a diplomat, nor has he ever had any particular desire to be nice to people — and it is enough to remember McCree's reaction to his attempts to return the favor yesterday, and his own resulting anger, to make him pretty sure he is on the right track.

And as much as he would rather stab himself with his own arrow, an apology is probably in order, regardless of whether it will change McCree's mind… even if he might be quietly wishing that it does.

* * *

At first, Hanzo cannot find McCree at all, and it's not until he gives up on the search and sits down with a book and an iced tea in the shaded area outside Winston's lab, that the Watchpoint's main gate rises with a clatter of metal and a hovertruck glides in. McCree steps out, followed by Lúcio, Tracer and D.Va, and the entire group walks towards the entrance leading to the facilities wing, loudly continuing some discussion that he is too far away to hear. They are all carrying a multitude of colorful shopping bags that most likely contain clothing, and Hanzo is torn between hoping that McCree found a replacement for the ancient henley, and that he did not.

They either don't notice or don't acknowledge him, and Hanzo continues reading for a while, until he catches himself skimming over the words without actually absorbing anything, sighs, pockets the datapad and resumes his quest.

D.Va and Lúcio are in the common room, eating takeout — Thai, judging by the smell — and playing a game he does not recognize from the depths of their pillow nest. His first instinct is to check the holoscreen's camera indicator. It is off, of course, and he is briefly ashamed of his mistrust, because many things can be said about Hana Song, but 'incompetent' is not one of them. The game is fast paced and apparently very competitive, judging by the insults D.Va throws at the screen to Lúcio's great amusement, and he watches for a few minutes, then, unnoticed, quietly leaves the room.

Following a logical chain of thought — if they brought food, then McCree will be eating it too — he does indeed find him in the kitchen, together with Tracer, unloading at least a dozen cartons of takeout onto the counter. The moment he crosses the doorway, his comm pings with a team-wide lunch summons that Tracer just sent, and soon after the chances of having a conversation in private drop to zero. Resentfully chewing his mediocre pad thai in a corner, he resolves to follow McCree out of the kitchen no matter what happens. He could simply send a message, but messages can be ignored — _like the one you ignored this morning_ , whispers the voice in his head — or McCree could straight out refuse to talk, and Hanzo is not prepared for that. If he corners McCree in person, he will at least have to be physically removed from his way.

Unbelievably, McCree gives him the slip. One moment he's fishing for leftover prawns in his noodles, the next he raises his eyes and McCree is gone from his spot like he was never there to begin with. Hanzo is begrudgingly impressed: he _has_ to be doing it on purpose, and as much as it is annoying, it is also a proof of admirable skill.

* * *

Deliberately or not, McCree does an amazing job of avoiding any opportunity for Hanzo to talk to him alone for the rest of the day, until the evening rolls in and everyone gathers for the continuation of the movie night. McCree sits on the other, larger sofa, between Dr. Ziegler and Dr. Zhou, and makes them both giggle with murmured commentary that Hanzo has no chance to hear from his spot, and by the time the last film of the previous day's series ends and a bathroom break is called, he is boiling with frustration so badly that he goes to make tea in a last-ditch effort to calm himself.

When he trips over the leg of a chair someone left pulled out too far from the table, the kick he gives it sends it skidding across the floor to crash against the kitchen wall.

Dr. Zhou, preparing a pot her own sweet-smelling jasmine tea, squeaks and jumps. "Ouch. Are you okay?"

"Obviously not," growls Hanzo, then realizes whom he is talking to and in what manner, and the guilt immediately drowns out most of the anger. "…I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she says, eyes wide. "Can I help?"

He sighs, returns the chair to its rightful spot and leans against the counter, staring at its ugly fake-granite surface. "Could you brew a bit more tea, please?"

"Of course," she brightens and reopens the tin, and her immediate willingness to forgive makes him feel even worse.

"I apologize," he tries again. "Taking my problems out on you is not how I should repay you for your kindness."

Dr. Zhou meticulously measures tea into the pot, closes the tin and turns to him with a worried expression. "There is nothing to repay, and I am always happy to help. Can I do anything else?"

He shakes his head. "Do you have a preference for any particular alcohol, doctor— Mei?"

"I don't really drink," she smiles. "Except for maybe a bit of rum in my tea when it's very cold. But there really is no need to."

"You have given me sake, and I have just been unforgivably rude to you. I insist."

Mei fills the teapot with water, biting her lip, then sighs heavily, turns towards him, glances conspiratorially at the door and lowers her voice. "I shouldn't tell you, but I hate lying and I just— I can't do this. I promised, but it feels so bad, and now you think you owe me something and it's just— terrible. Ugh." She wrings her hands and her voice drops to a whisper. "I'm so very sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but the sake wasn't my idea at all. I can't tell you who it was from, because I _promised_ — but it wasn't from me. I only agreed to give it to you."

For a minute they stare at each other, Hanzo in mute surprise and Mei with a mixture of defiance and embarrassment.

"See? You have friends here and people who wish you well," she says eventually, smiling shyly. "Please never hesitate to ask if you need help with anything."

He opens his mouth to question her about the mysterious benefactor, then closes it again — she did say she would not divulge the secret. The unexpected information shocks the rest of the anger out of him, though, leaving only confusion and curiosity, and he makes a mental note to buy Dr. Zhou a bottle of good rum, anyway. Or some quality tea. Or both.

When they return to the common room, Hanzo carries the tea tray; Mei abandons her previous spot next to McCree and joins him on his sofa instead, and he is strangely grateful and maybe a bit spitefully glad about it.

* * *

"Do you know who you are, Hanzo?" asks Aunt Chiyo, voice as kind and patient as always, and Hanzo's throat tightens in panic.

Touma is kneeling between two guards, silent and shivering, hands bound behind his back and a sack on his head. There are three brightly contrasting splatters of blood on his crisp white shirt and Hanzo tears his eyes away from them with great difficulty.

He composes himself: back straight, chin high. "Yes, _oba-sama_. I am a dragon."

"That is correct," she replies mildly. "You are a dragon. You are a Shimada. And do you know who you are not?" The question, clearly rhetorical, hangs between them for a couple of weighty seconds. "You are not a cheap whore," she concludes and stands up, graceful despite her age. "You are young, Hanzo. It is natural for the young ones to make mistakes; this is why their family is there to support them. I have full faith in your ability to learn from your mistakes and, one day, become the leader we need. Now, are you going to rectify your error yourself, or shall I do it for you?"

"It is my mistake and my responsibility," he recites, numb and resigned and pathetically thankful that Touma's head is covered, so that he does not have to look him in the eye.

She beams at him proudly, all warmth, understanding and forgiveness, and he wakes up the moment his hand wraps around the hilt of the sword.

* * *

Hanzo fights the aftereffects of the dream the only way he knows how: lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling and remembering the ways they all died, one after another, until his breath slows down and the nausea stops twisting his stomach. The clock shows it's not even three in the morning, but he knows from long experience that there is no hope of going back to sleep, not after _this_ kind of a dream. Tired to the bone, he drags himself off the bed, considers changing out of his sweat-soaked sleepwear, decides there is little risk of others being awake at this time of the night, and leaves the room in search of tea and inner peace.

Fate sees fit to grant him one, but not the other. As he gets closer to the entrance to the kitchen, he very nearly turns right back upon hearing the warm baritone belonging to the one person who is guaranteed to impair his attempts to calm down. Silently, he stops and listens for a while instead, and the moment he hears Mei's quiet voice and smells the aroma of _genmaicha_ wafting through the open door and filling the corridor, he decides that he is way too shaken and exhausted to care about what McCree might or might not do or say.

The kitchen is dark, illuminated only by the candle burning under the cast iron teapot in the middle of a table.

"Welcome to the insomniac club." McCree raises a small ceramic cup at his sight, and Mei gives him a little wave from the chair she is curled up in. She's in her pajamas, hair gathered in a loose bun, but McCree's wearing the exact same clothes as he did throughout the day, suggesting that he did not even try to sleep. Hanzo wonders how long they have been sitting here.

"Are there membership fees?" he asks tiredly. "And is the tea included?"

"Depends on which faction you wanna join. Nightmares or Regrets?"

Hanzo snorts despite himself. "Sign me up for both."

"Please help yourself to the tea," says Mei at the same time, frowning reproachfully at McCree. "There is enough for everyone."

 _Genmaicha_ brings him some measure of relief, and he closes his eyes, rests his elbows on the table and inhales the aroma, listening to Mei and McCree talk about the people they have both known in the years of old Overwatch. He knows the tragedy of Mei's past and the story of her impossible journey across the Antarctic, and not for the first time he wonders, bitterly, what a killer like himself is doing working alongside a genius _and_ a hero.

At least he is not the only criminal and murderer around here, if McCree's file is to be believed.

They seem to be content to leave him alone, asking no questions about the reason of his appearance and making no attempts to drag him into the conversation. The shadow of the nightmare gradually fades away, and by the time they begin discussing the merits of different Watchpoints they visited throughout their careers and how they compared to Gibraltar, he finally feels alive enough to quietly stand up and brew a second pot of tea. He does contribute a little after that, a sentence here and there on inconsequential topics like weather and politics and how likely Dr. Ziegler is to recruit at least one of the MI6 to their cause, until the tea light starts flickering and Mei yawns, rubbing her eyes in a rather adorable manner.

"I think I'm going to try to go back to sleep," she says after the second badly concealed yawn. "Are you two going to be all right?"

"You don't gotta worry about me. Not my first sleepless night, not my last," drawls McCree.

"I will be fine," he lies. "Thank you for the tea."

Mei briefly embraces McCree's shoulders from behind, and Hanzo barely has time to stiffen in alarm before she does the same to himself, warm and soft and unexpectedly comforting. "Don't stay up too late. We can't make a bad impression on Hana Song tomorrow, or she might decide she's not joining after all."

"I think she's had all the impressions she needed already, back in Korea and yesterday," McCree mutters when Mei is out of earshot. "She and Lúcio are thick as thieves, there's no chance she won't join." He leans back in his chair and looks at Hanzo with half-lidded eyes. "So, nightmares _and_ regrets? You wanna talk about it?"

His first instinct is to decline, but for some reason he hesitates. In the tea-scented darkness, in the small hours of the morning, McCree's presence is muted and warm rather than sharp and bright, and it brings him comfort instead of the stress he expected, and maybe it is the lack of sleep clouding his judgment, but somehow he knows that if he speaks, he will be understood.

"I dreamt," he starts slowly after a long while of staring at the flickering flame, "of my first lover. His name was Touma. It turned out he was… indiscreet about some things. Talked to the wrong people, I think — or maybe he bragged to his friends, I don't know, I was never given the exact details. He did have the personality for it, always too cocky, believing himself above danger. Somehow our involvement became public knowledge. The family found out."

McCree says nothing, rotating the cup slowly between his fingers. Hanzo takes a deep breath, fighting the constricting feeling in his chest.

"Whatever he said or did, it was decided that it cast shame on me, and by extension the whole family. I was called in front of the elders and ordered to execute him."

"And you did." It is not a question.

"And I did."

"Jesus," mutters McCree and peers into his teacup. "We might need somethin' stronger than this."

"We probably should not. Mei is right, the exercises begin at 10 A.M. Do you want to achieve lower accuracy than D.Va's mech?"

McCree snorts and smiles crookedly for the first time since Hanzo entered the kitchen. "My accuracy is fine 'til I start to see double, and I'm still a ways off that."

Neither of them get up to fetch alcohol, though, and for a moment they just sit there in silence, motionless except for an occasional sip of tea, and Hanzo does not remember the last time he felt this… quiet. Even the memory of Touma becomes bearable, an old ugly scar rather than a reopened wound, and he thinks that perhaps he might fall asleep again tonight, after all.

"Did you love him?" asks McCree suddenly.

"No," he answers without hesitation and pauses. "I don't think I did. I don't think I have ever loved anyone. Romantically, that is. Of course there is always a possibility that I did, and simply did not realize that was it."

McCree laughs, briefly and humorlessly, raises the lid of the teapot and peeks inside. "I think you'd know it if you did. Tea's runnin' out, by the way."

"What about you?" asks Hanzo. "Nightmares or regrets?"

"No nightmares tonight, just, you know," McCree shrugs, "general baggage. Shitty choices, shitty things I've done. Must be a full moon or somethin'. I could never sleep well during a full moon."

Hanzo knows an obvious misdirection when he sees one, and he decides to go along with it. They both have a lot of blood on their hands, and there are shadows under McCree's eyes and an unhappy set to his mouth, and if he does not feel like talking about it, then so be it.

"I believe sleep trouble is a fairly common occurrence during the full moon," he agrees. "Should I make more tea?"

"Nah, you're right. Need to get at least some shut-eye before the mornin'."

Hanzo divides the last of the tea evenly between their cups and they fall silent again. McCree is looking at the candle as well, now, a thousand-yard stare of a tired soldier, and it occurs to Hanzo that this is what he has been trying to achieve through the entire day. Now that they are alone, with not a soul awake on the entire Watchpoint, he could say his apologies, thank McCree for the favor, and maybe try to figure out why he is not interested anymore. It is the perfect opportunity, with McCree soft and unguarded, defenses lowered and no lies at the ready — but going back to the previous day's disastrous conversation would shatter this small bubble of peace, and the very idea feels like a blasphemy in the face of their unexpected companionship, this mutual understanding between two bad men bonding over their bad life choices.

There aren't many people in the world who know the story of Touma. Having an ally who is both worthy of hearing it and capable of understanding it is vastly more valuable than sexual gratification, no matter how mind-blowing. Perhaps it is time to respect McCree's wishes on the matter. He will regret it, yet another of his multitude of failures where he could have had something extraordinary and wasted the chance, but it will not be his first regret, and it will not be the last.

After he bids McCree goodnight and walks back to his room through the dark and quiet corridors, he falls asleep nearly the moment his head touches the pillow.


	7. Reciprocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're allergic to power play, you might want to give the second half of this chapter a miss.

The epiphany comes, as they often do, in the shower. It's not even gradual: Hanzo is just about to rinse off after his utilitarian morning wash, thinking lazily of the previous evening, when the brutal realization hits and he freezes, hands half-raised towards his hair. He stands there for a good minute, unmoving, as the sequence of events unfolds in his head, and he realizes the _painfully obvious_ things about McCree's behavior that he should have understood _immediately_ , his total lack of comprehension of which means that he is—

"Idiot," he breathes. "I'm an idiot."

The shampoo foam dripping into his eyes eventually forces him to move, and he steps under the weak spray, wincing both from the physical discomfort and the unpleasant mix of annoyance and hope suddenly churning in his chest. If he is right — and he has to be right, everything adds up perfectly — then there is still a chance that his monumental failure might be redeemable. He tries to recall the details of that horrendous conversation in the rec room, and the more he thinks about it, the worse it looks. _Of course_ McCree declined the offer. Hanzo could not have phrased it in a less fortunate way if he _tried_. He pretty much made it appear like he wanted to reciprocate purely out of some unhealthy sense of duty, and McCree, a decent human being that he clearly is, was not interested in what would amount to exploitation.

Hanzo groans and covers his face with his palms: McCree even _said_ he was not interested in debt collection, and he, in his misplaced anger, did not make the obvious connection.

The urge to punch a hole in the shower's enclosure not being particularly productive, he steps out and dresses himself instead, thinking. McCree possibly does not even know that Hanzo finds him attractive. He definitely does not know the extent to which Hanzo is interested in the reciprocation, seeing as Hanzo himself only discovered it yesterday. He might very well be convinced that his proposition was accepted purely for pragmatic reasons, to satisfy a physical need, and that Hanzo would have done the same with anyone who offered. All of these misconceptions can be fixed by means of an explanation and hopefully an enthusiastic demonstration, and after yesterday Hanzo not only wants to reciprocate, he wants to wipe that exhausted, dejected expression from McCree's face, and he hopes with renewed fervor that he might have mutually enjoyable means to do it.

On an impulse and possibly out of need for self-flagellation, he reaches for his comm and types a message before he can think better of it.

**_08:34 >_** I am an idiot.

**_08:34_ [** **源氏** **]** I know

Hanzo huffs a laugh: Genji has always been predictable.

**_08:35_ [** **源氏** **]** what prompted this discovery?

**_08:36 >_** I greatly offended McCree and I did not notice for two days. I need to find him before training.

**_08:36_ [** **源氏** **]** whatever you do, do NOT talk to him before breakfast

It's an obvious trap, but he did invite well-earned mockery by confessing to his brother in the first place, so he decides to walk into it.

**_08:36 >_** Why?

The ellipsis indicating that Genji is typing blinks for quite a while, and Hanzo braces himself.

**_08:38_ [** **源氏** **]** 1\. you deserve to stew in your shame for a while

2\. mccree has a tendency to get hangry

3\. trust me, sex on an empty stomach sucks

That actually makes him laugh again, and he replies quickly, shaking his head. Yes, he deserves the shame, and yes, the advice is sound — there is not enough time before the team exercise starts to discuss matters that might, hopefully, result in an immediate requirement for privacy and free time.

**_08:39_ >** You are a reprobate

**_08:39_ [** **源氏** **]** and you are an idiot

He closes the comm, feeling better after the foolish exchange. One and a half hour before the training is enough to come up with a plan of action.

* * *

Hanzo's preferred choice of weapon remains obviously and deeply incompatible with blank ammo combat simulations, so immediately after breakfast he pulls out and reassembles his old VSS. Athena has the cartridge specs already, uploaded the first time they did this kind of training, and unexpectedly, fresh magazines are waiting for him by the printer when he arrives at the armory.

"Thought you'd wanna use your weird-ass rifle again," says McCree, filling his speedloader to the side. "You're welcome."

"It's not 'weird-ass', it's Spetsnaz," Hanzo informs him loftily, "and you have no right to speak, with that monstrosity of yours."

McCree glares in mock offense. "You take that back. Peacekeeper is a work of art."

It feels strange to engage in their usual good-natured bickering when a part of him wants to walk up to McCree and kiss him, just to see what kind of reaction he gets, even if there is a considerable chance that the reaction might be an attempted punch to the face. McCree eyes his smirk suspiciously, and Hanzo gives him a single, meaningful 'hm' before walking out and forcibly purging thoughts of anything but the upcoming work out of his head.

The exercise does not go perfect, but considering the new addition to the team and the fact that they have very little experience fighting as a unit, it does go surprisingly well. All weapons are checked and cross-checked for blanks, Athena boots up her full combat simulation array and releases a swarm of telemetry drones, and they start with a series of randomized one-on-one duels. Considering how out of practice with firearms he had been until recently, he does acceptably well, winning all of his fights except the one with agent Tracer, who cheats outrageously by teleporting right behind him and putting a virtual bullet in his head point-blank before he can turn around.

She insists it is not cheating if it's part of her normal combat routine, and while on a rational level he agrees with that assessment, he still grumbles, if only to soothe his somewhat wounded pride.

For paired exercises, Hanzo ends up partnered with D.Va, who immediately and probably habitually attempts to take the lead, and only after a few minutes realizes she is barking commands at her senior and goes momentarily, but noticeably startled. Her strategy is sound, though, and Hanzo assures her he is fine following her orders, although he does make it his foremost priority to try and land a revenge shot on Tracer whenever he spots her from his nest at the top of the comm tower.

It's hard work, but it is also quite enjoyable, especially when Winston calls for a free-for-all after all the planned exercises have been finished, and Hanzo very nearly starts cackling when he climbs the old shuttle in the hangar and takes down three of his colleagues before anyone realizes where he is hiding. Athena lags behind a little, the chaos of everyone shooting at everyone straining either the drones' bandwidth or her computational capabilities, and after Hanzo takes an easy shot at Mei, caught defenseless in the open below, he is unpleasantly surprised when Athena notifies him of his own demise instead of crediting him with another elimination.

Somewhat chagrined that he got himself killed so easily during a hot streak, he looks around and sees McCree, who appears to have sneaked around the maintenance sidewalk without him noticing, crept into visual range and took him down with a single headshot. McCree tips the hat at him, grinning, and Hanzo willingly succumbs to the urge to respond with a vulgar gesture.

He does not get an opportunity to retaliate, because shortly after his stealthy murder, Athena announces that her databanks are full and no further combat data can be stored, and everyone immediately rushes for the showers. He makes a mental note for the next time, instead; of everyone here, he is undoubtedly the expert at calculated revenge.

* * *

Preliminary statistics are announced during lunch. Athena has no combat specs for D.Va's mech and no adequate analysis template, and the necessity of calculating everything from scratch means that the mech is, to its pilot's vocal disappointment, temporarily excluded from rankings, but perhaps unsurprisingly, Hana also turns out to be quite skilled with her deceptively harmless-looking sidearm. McCree tops the elimination ranking as usual — Hanzo has long ago been forced to accept that he will not win in this particular category — but accuracy and time-to-kill go to himself, as they should.

After lunch, Hanzo gets involved in a followup discussion on whether noncombatant members of Overwatch should regularly train alongside others to improve their proficiency with firearms. Dr. Ziegler can be quite fearsome with her pistol at short range, but Mei, the least aggressive person he has ever known, is barely able to defend herself, and it is his opinion that a scientist or not, she cannot afford the luxury of pacifism while belonging to an organization whose MO are armed interventions. McCree stays away from the discussion, and Hanzo abruptly remembers his ambitious plans for the rest of the day when he notices him quietly leaving the room. He cannot very well abandon the conversation he started himself, and to his chagrin, it takes a good fifteen minutes for the dispute to reach the point where he can remove himself from it.

During these fifteen minutes, McCree disappears into thin air.

Now that he has a renewed hope and a plan, Hanzo is not deterred. Methodically, he combs through the entire Watchpoint, from the facilities to the firing range, and he only becomes somewhat worried when after an hour of looking into every corner and hanging around the common areas, McCree is still nowhere to be found. Even a quick check of the outside perimeter yields nothing, and the truck is in the garage, and Hanzo almost sends a message along the lines of "where are you?", but pride stops him from at the last moment — he is an _assassin_. This is a small outpost. He will find the man himself. If he is not in the Watchpoint, and he has not gone into town, then as unlikely as it seems, he might be in the reserve.

He finds Genji instead. His brother sits in his usual spot, writing some sort of a manuscript using a horribly tacky quill-shaped stylus, and he startles badly when Hanzo enters his field of vision, instinctively trying to cover the tablet and its contents. Hanzo has no idea whom he might be writing to to react in such a way but he does not care, his mind focused on a single task.

"I don't suppose you have seen McCree?" he asks, ostentatiously not looking at the presumed letter. He is sure that if their roles were reversed, he would already be mocked for keeping a diary.

"I might have." There is a teasing lilt to Genji's voice. "Is this because of the messages you sent me earlier? Because if so, then I need to evacuate first."

Hanzo processes this information and automatically looks around.

"Not here." Genji turns off the tablet and rises from his seat. "He went further in. And I'm out of here in case he's within earshot."

Hanzo rolls his eyes, hoping that McCree is _not_ within earshot and _not_ listening to Genji's unsubtle suggestions. "Whatever you are implying, I merely need to talk to him."

"Sure. Have fun _talking_. Message me when you're done _talking_ so I can come back up here," says his brother, voice dripping with unnecessary sarcasm, and leaves. Hanzo briefly regrets not ridiculing him about a diary after all.

The dusty path leading deeper into the reserve must have been wider once, back when the Rock was still open to tourists, but over years of disuse it has narrowed enough to make it barely passable for a single person, and Hanzo has to make a conscious effort to avoid getting his clothes snagged or his bare arms scratched on the dense scrub. There is evidence of someone clearing the more inconvenient branches out of the way, cuts that look like they must have been done recently, and he makes a mental note to finally do some exploring later — it is shameful that he has spent months here and never felt the urge to fully learn the surroundings.

The path opens to a small clearing, as dry and dusty as the path itself, littered with limestone boulders, sparse olive trees and a scattering of the ever-present shrubs. One of the stones, nearly as tall as a man's height and with a flat, weather-smoothed face, sticks out of the ground a perfect angle to lean against and that's where McCree is sitting, facing away from the path. There is a holopad in his lap and his hat is pulled low over his eyes, and judging by the motions of his visible arm, he's typing.

Hanzo stops when he notices another source of movement. A pair of monkeys sit on an outcrop nearby, one of them with a young, and they all turn their heads to stare at Hanzo, unblinkingly and with distrust. The baby monkey loses interest first; the adults examine him for a longer moment before returning to the grooming that he apparently interrupted.

McCree writes without pause, surprisingly quickly for someone who is supposed to be a gunslinging vigilante. Hanzo watches him for a while, in a last moment of hesitation before the jump.

"Howdy, Hanzo," says McCree without raising his eyes from the display or turning his head in Hanzo's direction.

He should not be surprised, but he asks anyway. "How did you know it was me?"

"The macaques are starin' at you, there's only two people around who move quietly enough that I wouldn't hear 'em coming, and Genji wouldn't just stand there bein' all silent and creepy."

Hanzo huffs, walking closer. The monkey with the young gives him a baleful look, jumps off the outcrop and disappears behind a rock. "You would have paused too, if you suddenly found yourself subject to a thorough and unexpected scrutiny."

"They do look like they judge you all the time," agrees McCree, and turns his head, peering at him from under the brim of the hat. "They're a bunch of nasty little shits. A good company for a fella like me."

At this angle, in the bright sunlight and against the background of yellow dust and white stone, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles and a blade of grass between his teeth, McCree looks like an old cigarette advertisement poster. Or, perhaps, a cover of a very specific type of novel. The latter thought makes Hanzo snort quietly: a fitting connotation, considering what he came here for. He leans against another block of stone, conveniently opposite to McCree's seat, and folds his arms, contemplating his next move.

McCree closes the display, sets it aside and pushes the hat up. "So. What brings you here to my no-longer-hidden getaway?"

In a flash of inspiration, he finds the perfect opening and cannot resist a wry smile. "Sorry for being an ass, and thank you for not punching me in the face for it."

The suspicious look McCree gives him is not unlike the one he received from the monkeys, and Hanzo progresses from vaguely amused to nearly giddy.

"I wasn't honest with you and myself," he continues, "in regard to the… _favor_ you offered me." McCree's face shutters instantly, a blank poker face without a trace of a smile, but all that matters is that he is listening. "It has come to my attention that I behaved like an ass, for which I wish to apologize, and also that I may have misled you about my own intentions, which I intend to clarify."

McCree opens his mouth to speak, but Hanzo gestures that he is not finished and barrels on. "So: I apologize for my rude behavior, and I thank you for tolerating it. Had I been in your place, I would not have been so forgiving."

He makes a pause, and McCree clears his throat. "Well. I already told you I knew you were a bit of an asshole. But if it makes you feel any better, apology accepted."

Hanzo nods and continues. "And as for my intentions: I did not mean to imply that the counter-offer I attempted to make you was out of a sense of obligation or duty." _Yes you did_ , hisses the internal voice, but there is a limit to the amount of faults he can admit in one session, and that confession, if required, can wait for another day. "My wording was… unfortunate."

McCree says nothing and just looks at him, expressionless.

He swallows the sudden, metallic taste of adrenaline. "If instead I told you that I truly _wanted_ it, that I wanted to drop to my knees for you and... give you what you have given me — would it have made a difference?"

For a split second, McCree's features twist in an expression that looks unsettlingly like despair, and a small sound that can only be described as pained escapes his mouth, and it's a like a splash of freezing water over the building up heat. Hanzo automatically takes a step forward, then half a step back, suddenly worried — has he interpreted everything wrong, _again_?

McCree gets his face back under control and promptly hides it in his hands.

"Are you okay?" No answer. "McCree?"

"At least call me Jesse," comes muffled through the fingers still covering his face.

"Fine. Jesse. What is wrong?"

"Nothin', I'm fine," McCree says through his teeth and slowly drags his palms up, running his fingers through his hair and knocking the hat off to the side.

"Are you sure—"

"Yes, fuck, yes, just— shut up and come here. Please," and _that_ tone of voice and _that_ expression he recognizes instantly, the dark and intense hunger, and McCree reaches out to him from where he is still sitting, and Hanzo's feet move before he gives them a conscious permission to. The moment their fingers touch, he is yanked forward and down with such force that he has to support himself with an outstretched hand in order not to crash face first into the stone, and he laughs breathlessly, dropping to his knees astride McCree's legs.

"I am going to assume that this is a yes," he manages, ridiculously elated, and somehow he doesn't mind the manhandling at all.

This kiss is a complete opposite of the first one, a lot less controlled and a lot more urgent, no gentleness, no teasing, just desperate, biting want, and never before in his life has he gone from a vague possibility of arousal to full blown blood-on-fire in a span of maybe fifteen seconds. McCree's hands immediately land on his hips and pull him closer, and when they are flush against each other Hanzo makes a sound he definitely has never heard himself make, but he is already well past thinking about dignity or propriety or other unimportant things, and wraps an arm around McCree's neck and pushes into the kiss.

There's a metal hand on the back of his head and a flesh one low on his back, inching into his pants, and having McCree hard against him feels like nothing he has ever felt before; still supporting himself on one arm against the rock, he rolls his hips in the most shameless way he can, feels McCree arch up to meet him, and is startled out of the haze of lust by a sudden snort of laughter against his mouth.

"Not with the fucking macaques watchin'," McCree wheezes when he breaks away to investigate.

He whips around and sure enough, there are three of them now, two adults and a juvenile which is chewing on something in a way that brings popcorn to mind, and all three are looking right at them with the sort of mild interest one might watch a nature documentary with. It is impossible not to burst into laughter, and for a moment they cling to each other shaking with it, both massively turned on and hysterically amused, until Hanzo gets himself together and presses his forehead briefly to McCree's. "Let's go somewhere else, then."

"Any ideas? 'Cause I don't have much to offer privacy-wise."

"I have a room," Hanzo reminds him, futilely attempting to get up. "If you can let go of me for long enough."

"Nope," grumbles McCree and kisses him again, hard, before loosening the grip. "Fine."

Hanzo stands up and immediately realizes that going back to the Watchpoint together will be a problem. McCree's jeans might hide his arousal enough, but Hanzo's soft blue sweatpants absolutely do not stand up to the challenge, and McCree does not help matters at all by taking one look at him and pulling him back in for another kiss.

"Monkeys," Hanzo reminds him breathlessly when they break apart for air.

McCree resolutely turns his back at him, picking up the hat and the holopad. "Go first and think of something awful. Like Torbjörn in speedos."

* * *

The journey back to the Watchpoint feels surreal, with the tension between them so strong Hanzo is almost surprised that the air is not crackling with it. Remembering poems he memorized long, long ago is a sufficient way to distract himself, and while he is painfully aware of McCree's presence a couple of steps behind and the eyes boring a hole in the back of his skull, at least he does not parade through public areas looking like he stepped out of a pornographic movie set. The way they walk not-quite-together is so utterly conspicuous that he both hopes not to encounter anyone, and cannot help but imagine Genji's face if they just happened to meet him on the way. They don't; the only person they have to walk past is Mei, who barely even registers their presence, a mug of tea in one hand and a datapad in the other, and then they are at the door, he presses a thumb against the scanner, and ancient Japanese verse evaporates from his head the instant he crosses the threshold.

McCree freezes in the entrance, eyes flickering all over the place as if he's trying to memorize the layout.

Hanzo kicks off his shoes and drops his comm on the tiny night table. "My accommodations are not of the highest quality, but surely they are better than a storage room," he says, somewhere between offended — he keeps the room clean enough that such hesitation is unwarranted — and afraid that for some unfathomable reason McCree changed his mind again.

McCree's eyes refocus on him and he smiles, a little wry. "Habit. Don't like walkin' into places where I don't know the lay of the land."

"Are you done with the survey yet, or shall we postpone our plans?" he asks drily, and McCree finally takes a step forward, allowing the door to close. Hanzo reaches over his shoulder to lock it, and then it only feels natural to continue the motion and push him against the door, take the hat off his head and pull him down into a kiss.

There is a restraint to McCree's actions now that definitely was not present back in the reserve, and Hanzo finds that he wants it gone. "What do you want?" he murmurs and drags his lips away from McCree's mouth and across his jaw to explore his neck, the motions that always seemed perfunctory now feeling completely new and a thousand times _better_ , and the hands around his waist tighten convulsively for a split second before they relax.

"Whatever you're offerin'," comes the entirely unsatisfactory response, and this will not do.

He pushes closer and insinuates his thigh between McCree's, rewarded by a small hitch of breath. "No. That would be doing what _I_ want. What do _you_ want, McCree?"

"I want you to use my goddamn first name, is what I want," grouses McCree immediately.

Hanzo pulls away, meeting little resistance, and looks into dark, smiling eyes. "I will try… Jesse. Now, will you tell me what you want or do I have to guess? Or have you lost interest?"

He gets pulled right back in, their hips close enough now that he can feel how hard they both are. "This look like a lack of interest to you?"

"No, but you have still not answered my question. I thought you wanted me on my knees?" he asks, teasing, and the reaction is immediate, even if Jesse tries to control it: the brief stiffening of muscles, the cut-off, ragged intake of breath, and most damningly, the twitch Hanzo can feel right against his cock. "You do," he breathes, delighted with the sudden understanding, and they both shiver. "You _literally_ want me on my knees."

He gets no response, but the embrace tightens, and the kiss he receives this time, a lot more similar to the one in the reserve, feels like Jesse is trying to make him stop talking.

"You have been thinking about bringing the proud Shimada Hanzo to his knees, haven't you," he purrs the moment his mouth is free, giddy all over again for reasons he cannot name, and Jesse closes his eyes and shudders again, even harder. "Do you think I am too prideful to do it? Have you imagined _forcing_ me to my knees, perhaps?"

"Shut up," Jesse grits out.

Hanzo backs entirely out of his arms and waits for him to open his eyes, before smirking as wickedly as he can. "Hm. I have never willingly surrendered to anyone before. I think I might enjoy surrendering to you. _If you make me_."

"Jesus Christ," hisses Jesse, wild-eyed now. " _Get on your knees_."

He has never in his life experienced a hot rush like the one he gets now, slowly and deliberately settling into _seiza_ while maintaining eye contact with Jesse. Jesse stares at him for a moment, eyes black with lust, before finally reaching for his belt buckle, and his stunned expression and the fact that his hands are shaking make Hanzo realize again just how far he had been from the truth when he still thought of this act as giving up control.

The belt drops to the floor. Jesse unbuttons his jeans with fumbling fingers and hesitates, breathing fast, and as much as Hanzo is tempted to just sit and _wait_ for it, he is not used to inaction and he itches to touch, unbelievably turned on even though they haven't really _done_ anything yet. He reaches out and gently pulls Jesse closer, between his spread knees, and just as he had imagined before, he rubs his cheek along the length of Jesse's cock straining the dark red fabric of his boxers.

Jesse makes a frantic noise, shoves both his jeans and his underwear down, and hesitates only for a split second before reaching out and cupping Hanzo's cheek with his palm. Hanzo looks into his burning eyes, deliberately licks his lips and lets his mouth fall slightly open.

"I won't last a fucking minute if you keep lookin' at me like that," Jesse mutters roughly.

"I do not mind," he murmurs back and chooses his next words carefully. "You can have my mouth again later, if you wish."

" _Fuck_ ," says Jesse eloquently. The hand slides from his cheek to the back of his head, and the pull is more of a gentle suggestion than anything else, but it is a pull nonetheless, and Hanzo follows it obediently and lets Jesse's perfectly shaped cock slide between his lips.

Jesse is careful and slow in filling Hanzo's mouth, way too careful and slow for his liking, so he reaches out, spreads his palms on Jesse's ass and demonstrates exactly how far he can go. Jesse moans loudly and desperately and takes the hint, cradling his face in both hands now and sliding across his tongue in perfectly measured thrusts, the rhythm steady and with just the right amount of roughness, and Hanzo has to close his eyes briefly because Jesse tastes just as good as he smells, and the sounds he is making are even more unbelievably erotic than before, and all of it is overwhelming in the best way, and he wonders deliriously if he could finish just from the sensory overload alone.

"Oh god," gasps Jesse suddenly, letting go of his head, "Hanzo, better pull off, fuck—"

Feeling powerful and contrary, he holds Jesse's hips in an iron grip and takes him into his mouth as deep as he can, and Jesse shouts something unintelligible as he comes.

* * *

Hanzo does not come from the sensory overload, but he does shortly after, because Jesse kicks off his jeans, all but rips Hanzo's clothes off, topples him onto the bed and returns the favor. When he comes to his senses, he is so high on endorphins that the only semi-coherent thought in his mind is _do not let him escape this time_ , and to that effect he crawls half on top of Jesse, wraps all limbs around him like a heavily tattooed octopus and falls asleep.

He wakes up some time later due to the urgent signals from his bladder. Jesse is still in his bed, still partially underneath him, also asleep, and he does not wake when Hanzo raises his head and succumbs to an urge to watch him for a moment. There is no frown on Jesse's face this time; he looks peaceful, eyelids fluttering slightly, hair in wild disarray over Hanzo's pillow, and an unnamed emotion makes Hanzo's throat tighten. He barely resists an equally strange urge to reach out and touch Jesse's bearded cheek.

He still has to get up, however, so he rises from the bed as carefully as possible. Jesse doesn't stir, seemingly deeply asleep, and Hanzo grabs the comm off the table and tiptoes to the bathroom.

**_19:02 >_** You can go back to your spot now.

**_19:04_ [** **源氏** **]** congratulations and I don't want to hear about it

After he returns to the room, he hesitates only for a moment before carefully arranging himself next to Jesse, tangling their legs together, resting his head on Jesse's bicep and throwing a blanket over them both. The last thing he registers before falling asleep is Jesse's arm curling around his shoulders.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, his bed is empty, and Jesse is nowhere to be found.    
   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I accidentally wrote a bit of power play. Oops? I blame McCree.


	8. Expectations

Urgent beeping pulls Hanzo out of deep sleep. Bleary-eyed, he checks the clock — barely past 4 A.M. — and reaches blindly for the comm, and a moment later he's upright and fully awake: they have a new mission, Mallorca, forty-five minutes to departure, briefing on board. There is just enough time to deal with necessary hygiene, eat breakfast and assemble gear.

The kitchen is already a whirlwind of activity, with yawning people bumping into each other on the path between the fridge and the coffee machine and both microwaves already on full blast, and the only cheerful person in the room is Reinhardt, frying two full pans of eggs on the stove. At his side, Mei is mass toasting bread, and since there is no time to boil rice, Hanzo, determined not to leave without adequate nutrition this time, claims a hefty part of the stack of ready toast, pulls the _natto_ bowl out of the fridge, receives two fried eggs without even asking and retreats to his customary corner.

It appears, he muses somewhat resignedly while chewing on his toast, that he has a semblance of a sex life now, albeit with someone allergic to any intimacy outside the act itself. He is not quite sure why that makes any difference — it has certainly never mattered to him before — but even despite the early hour he can recognize his own vague disappointment at McCree's early departure from his bed.

Oh well. Escalating urges and strange impulses aside, occasional companionship and frankly outstanding sex are already more than he could have hoped for.

McCree himself is nowhere to be seen, and for a moment Hanzo wonders, slightly spitefully, if he slept through the summons, but there is no place for spite here, not with lives most likely being at stake, and after he finishes his breakfast and goes for the finally vacated coffee machine, he pulls out his comm to make a call. McCree enters the kitchen at the exact moment Hanzo's thumb hovers over the button, and makes a beeline for the coffee.

"Good morning," says Hanzo, putting all the meaningful emphasis he can muster into the words.

"Mornin'," replies McCree neutrally, and Hanzo would suspect he is avoiding eye contact, if it wasn't for the fact that his singular focus on the machine is nothing out of the ordinary. After the events of yesterday, one could expect that Hanzo would merit at least the same level of attention as coffee, he thinks acidly, and then he realizes he still has to get dressed for the mission and assemble his gear, and deposits the mug into the dishwasher and leaves the kitchen without sparing McCree another thought.

Somehow McCree still beats him to the transport. Hanzo is reluctantly impressed and somewhat suspicious about that fact, but before he can formalize any suspicions about his hygiene or level of preparation, Mike the builder appears in the entrance, wearing what is _definitely_ not construction worker gear, and salutes everyone with an absolutely straight face.

"Well, would you look at that," drawls McCree, and agent Tracer sputters with indignation and starts protesting just as Athena's serene voice announces readiness for takeoff.

Winston clears his throat. "Agent Newman is going to accompany us on this mission," he says wryly, nearly drowned out by Reinhardt's booming laughter and various exclamations of surprise. "Get us in the air, Lena. We'll do the briefing once we're at cruising altitude."

"I can't believe we're letting this tosser fly with us," she snaps and disappears into the cockpit, while the aforementioned tosser, his almost perfectly neutral expression marred by a slightest shade of glee, placidly stores his weaponry in one of the lockers and takes a seat next to Dr. Ziegler.

Hanzo chooses the seat opposite McCree and busies himself with attempts to determine whether he is avoiding eye contact or not.

* * *

The man formerly known as Mike, now officially Agent Michael Newman of the MI6, assists Winston during the debriefing. A multinational corporation's research facility, he explains, has gone dark in late evening hours of the previous day. A team dispatched to assess the situation has also gone dark shortly after confirming hostiles on site, and considering the importance of the research and its potential repercussions if compromised, it has been decided that due to its combined skillset and convenient geographical position, Overwatch would be the best and fastest way to handle the situation.

"For obvious reasons, a direct intervention of British forces in Spanish territory is out of the question," finishes agent Newman, glancing over at Winston, "but there are at least two persons in that facility whose security is of utmost importance to the British government, not to mention the sensitivity of the research itself. I'm here to identify these persons and prioritize their rescue, if needed."

"And to blow the place up if it's been compromised," murmurs McCree just loudly enough to be heard.

The agent gives him a look of such perfect disdain that Hanzo cannot help but appreciate it. "Our idea of a discreet operation does not involve explosives, Mr. McCree."

Winston clears his throat. "I sent what little data we've got on the facility to everyone's comms. I suggest giving it a read instead of engaging in friendly rivalries."

Hanzo skims over the heavily-edited data, decides it contains nothing of usefulness, casts a glance at McCree and on impulse types a question.

 ** _05:26 >_**Why did you leave last night?

He can see the exact moment McCree reads the message — he makes an incredulous face at his comm and looks up, and Hanzo just raises his eyebrows, maintaining a perfectly bored expression.

 ** _05:26 [McCree]_** You wanna talk about it now?!

 ** _05:26 > _**As someone told me not long ago: no time like the present.

 ** _05:27 > _**And you cannot escape this way.

McCree frowns at the display for a long moment before replying, and Hanzo silently congratulates himself for the excellent idea.

 ** _05:27 [McCree]_** You do realize these comms are probably logged.

 ** _05:28 > _**Even if they are, I do not particularly care.

 ** _05:28 >_ **So: why did you leave?

They have another silent exchange of stares; Hanzo knows his strengths and this is not a competition which McCree is likely to win, and sure enough, the man huffs in defeat and redirects his attention back to the comm.

 ** _05:29 [McCree]_** You wanted me to stay?

 ** _05:29 [McCree]_** Thought you'd appreciate being spared the awkwardness.

 ** _05:29 > _**What awkwardness?

 ** _05:29 [McCree]_** You really want me to write this in open text for Athena's amusement, don't you? Fine, I thought I'd save us both from the painful morning after.

Hanzo wishes he did not know what McCree is talking about, but he does. He is very familiar with the feeling of post-coital awkwardness and he remembers how relieved he had always been when he and his temporary partner finally parted ways, but that was _before_ , and this is McCree, and it has already been established that nothing about intimacy with McCree is in any way resemblant of Hanzo's sexual experiences of the past.

…Is this how _he_ perceives it, then?

 ** _05:30 > _**Why do you think it would have been painful?

 ** _05:30 > _**And why do you always run away?

 ** _05:30 [McCree]_** I don't run away, I remove myself from the situation when my presence is no longer needed.

Now it's his turn to look up from the comm, at a loss for words, and level McCree with an incredulous glare, but before he can gather his wits to properly express his disbelief, McCree, now with poker face firmly in place, sends another message.

 ** _05:31 [McCree]_** And I'd rather be gone before we get to the "oh shit, he's still here, what now" stage. You know, just common courtesy between fuckbuddies.

Hanzo stares at it for quite some time.

That… clarifies things, he supposes, even though for some reason it instantly sours his mood.

 ** _05:32 > _**So what you are trying to convey is that you are only interested in sexual relations, and nothing else.

 _Just as you were, back in the family_ , whispers his inner voice, as ruthless as it is rational, and Hanzo wants to think that that was different — that the people he slept with back then knew what the proposition entailed, and they never wanted anything more anyway, not relationship-wise at least — but he knows the argument is futile. McCree never offered him anything above physical intimacy, either. In fact, he could not have been clearer about the extent of his offer, and it is not his fault that somewhere along the line Hanzo seems to have developed a fixation that, apparently, continually makes him want _more_.

He does not even know why and when McCree's continued presence became something he actively wished for, and he winces internally at the very thought of what his reaction would have been in the past if one of his sexual partners started exhibiting this kind of behavior. _You are being treated just as you treated others_ , agrees the voice, and there is no counter-argument he can offer to that.

 ** _05:32 > _**I understand. I shall adjust my expectations.

His pulse too fast and his stomach twisting for reasons he does not know or care about, he decisively closes the comm, pockets it and stands up. Now that matters are cleared up, he might as well spend the rest of this flight productively and properly inspect his gear.

He very carefully avoids looking at McCree or paying attention to the comm's continued vibration in his pocket until Winston calls for a strategy discussion, Agent Newman and McCree fall into what can only be described as a battle of egos over the preferred approach to breaching the facility, and Hanzo can purge everything that isn't related to the upcoming mission out of his mind.

* * *

The strategizing proves moot immediately after they land and find themselves pinned under sniper fire the moment they leave the vicinity of the transport.

The shooter is good, too good not to get Hanzo's whole attention, and Genji and he spend fifteen minutes maneuvering to flush him out as the others huddle behind Reinhardt's shield. The sniper turns out to be be a slim, agile woman, who grapples away the moment Hanzo finally has an arrow aimed at her head, and in a feat of awe-inspiring skill somehow manages to lose not only one, but both of them. While he's fuming at his failure, he is informed over the comms that the sniper's codename is Widowmaker, that she is affiliated with Talon and that there is a good deal of history between her and Overwatch, the old and the new, and the explanations end there as the main group discovers the grim fate of the previous intervention team. The single survivor is in deep shock, babbling about nightmares and black ghosts, barely coherent despite Dr. Ziegler's best efforts, and after Winston opens the facility's locked service door by means of taking it out of the frame and narrowly escapes a double shotgun blast from the aforementioned black ghost, the fight begins for real.

It is at least as intense as the London intervention, but with a very different kind of intensity. King's Row was narrow streets and screaming pedestrians, and dodging gunfire from random directions while chasing down a bomb that could explode at any second and take thousands of lives with it; this is taking back floors and staircases and overcoming makeshift barricades, one room at a time, all the while at a risk of a black wraith silently materializing in the vicinity and taking one of them out before there is time to react. Hanzo puts at least three arrows into the ghost's body that should outright kill or at least wound it enough to put it out of action, and yet it keeps coming back, and the only reasons they are all still alive are McCree's quick reflexes and the arsenal of incapacitating weaponry he carries on his person.

About halfway through the facility everyone's nerves are worn so thin that agent Newman nearly shoots at Tracer who blinks back from a forward reconnaissance, and blessedly, _finally_ , the next appearance leaves the wraith stunned by a flash grenade right in the path of Reinhardt's rocket-assisted charge. The resulting splatter of disgusting black goo across the wall does not look like it's going to reassemble itself anytime soon, and with the ghost at least temporarily out of the equation, the remaining standard Talon forces are easy enough to deal with. Genji, relegated exclusively to tracking the sniper and making sure she does not set up again, reports soon after that she had reached an apparent evacuation point and airlifted before he could intercept her.

They find most of the research team locked in a conference room — Talon had clearly come for the data rather than human lives — and after agent Newman locates the two British scientists, both alive and well, the mission is concluded and deemed a resounding success.

The adrenaline crash comes sooner than expected, and while others discuss details with the facility's leadership, the extent to which Overwatch's involvement should be made public in particular, Hanzo walks back to the transport on stiffening legs, disassembles the bow, stashes it in a locker and lies across the empty seats. The Orca has standard issue blankets stored somewhere, but there is a more convenient item that can be used as a cover in Hanzo's immediate vicinity, and he unceremoniously grabs McCree's abandoned serape, arranges it over himself as best as he can and falls asleep, wrapped in the scent of tobacco, cotton and warmth.

The cacophony of excited voices and the rumble of engines coming to life wake him up, and he sits back up to make space for others and starts pulling the serape off, until a hand lands on his shoulder and halts his movements.

"Keep it," murmurs McCree next to him. "And read your goddamn comms."

Hanzo is tired, out of fucks to give, and has no intention to read anything: he wraps the fabric tighter around himself, leans against the wall and falls asleep again.

* * *

He does, finally, read the messages, if only to get rid of the annoying blinking light, but only after indulging in a long, hot, relaxing shower in the common bathroom, changing into comfortable clothes and draining a cup of sake.

 ** _05:32 [McCree]_** Wait, what?

 ** _05:32 [McCree]_** wait wait dont

 ** _05:33 [McCree]_** don't start ignoring me NOW

 ** _05:33 [McCree]_** Hanzo, open the goddamn comm!

 ** _05:35 [McCree]_** You can't just drop a line like that and walk away from the conversation.

 ** _05:37 [McCree]_** I swear I'm going to get up and talk to you in the middle of everyone

 ** _05:42 [McCree]_** Okay, you're right, this is not a discussion we should continue over the comms.

Hanzo snorts — what was the point of reading that? — and closes the comm, which immediately pings again.

 ** _13:12 [McCree]_** We need to talk.

"I most definitely don't," he mutters under his breath, purposefully drops the comm back on the table and leaves for lunch.

He takes his time in the kitchen, indulging in a proper meal this time: miso, rice and stir-fried vegetables mixed with thin slices of lean pork. He peeks into Winston's lab and learns, to his distaste, that the ghost Reinhardt had reduced to a smear on the wall disappeared sometime between their departure and the arrival of the corporation's own security group. He starts laundry, well overdue at this point. Finally, he goes to the gym to practice, but _katas_ do not bring him the usual relaxed focus: he is high strung, his movements lack fluidity, his blows are too forceful and his balance is off, and after he yells and punches the training dummy in frustration after a particularly sloppy kick, a sudden sound of a synthetic throat being pointedly cleared comes from the door behind him.

"Time for a break, perhaps?" says Genji innocently, strolling in.

Hanzo realizes he has lost track of time, and judging by the state of his breathing, he should have stopped a long while ago. "What do you want?" he growls, entirely impolite, and starts unwrapping the bandage from his knuckles in sharp, angry movements.

The bandages are singed. So that's where the smell of burning came from.

"Athena asked me if I could possibly talk to you, after she's had to disable the fire alarm in the gym. Twice. So, why the fire hazard? What happened, brother?"

"Nothing," he says, doing his best to keep his voice level. Genji does not move, only blinks expectantly, as if there never was a response. Hanzo has fallen for this exact bait countless times over many years, and he promises himself it will not work this time — but the silence drags on, and under Genji's unwavering stare Hanzo's nerves wear thin. "What?!" he finally snaps, turning sharply towards his meddling brother.

"I am still waiting for your response, of course."

"I already told you," he snarls.

"The only thing I heard was an insult to my intelligence, which I generously elected to ignore."

Hanzo closes his eyes and stills, attempting to collect himself before the dragons burst out of his skin for good; there is a pause, a metallic sigh, and Genji's voice draws closer.

"If you truly don't want to talk, I'll respect that, but I implore you to reconsider before you trigger the alarm for the third time." Genji walks past him and pointedly inspects the scorch marks on the punching bag. "It's McCree again, isn't it?"

Hanzo considers denying it for exactly as long as it takes him to remember their previous discussion on the same subject, and all the fight goes out of him at once. He drops onto a bench with a heavy sigh, rests his elbows on his knees and rubs at his temples. He did not even realize until now that he had developed a headache.

"It's not that I do not wish to talk," he says, defeated. "There is just nothing I can say that will make sense to you without going into details. And you specifically did not want details," he adds in a last-ditch effort to get Genji to leave him alone.

Genji leans against the wall, produces one of his _shuriken_ and absently flips it between his fingers. "True, and I am sure I will regret this, but I feel it's my familial responsibility to stop you from inflicting further property damage. I have braced myself. Go on."

Staring at the ugly gray carpet under his feet is easier than looking at his brother's amused face, and despite himself, he haltingly starts talking. "Judging by McCree's behavior, and the conversation we had today, his expectations about our… involvement are rather different than mine."

Genji hums, considering. "Good different or bad different?"

"An excellent question. I do not know," he says, relieved to have a simple answer this time. "What constitutes good or bad in this scenario?"

"Let me rephrase. Does he expect too much of you?"

Hanzo snorts. "No. As it happens, it is _my_ expectations that are too high."

"Huh," says Genji slowly after a moment of silence. "I would ask what sort of expectations you have that are above what McCree is prepared to offer, but we might be getting into the territory where I _really_ don't want to hear details."

"I warned you it would not make sense to you," he shrugs, unsurprised.

After a moment of weighty silence, Genji suddenly pushes away from the wall and drops into a squat right in front of Hanzo's hunched form. "Brother. I might be going out on a limb here, but… have you suddenly developed _human feelings_?"

His little brother has always had the uncanny ability to strike right at the weak spot. Hanzo recoils and straightens, glaring. "I chose not to comment on your diary, or love letters, or whatever it was that you were so keen to conceal back in the reserve. I would appreciate it if you returned the kindness and spared me the mockery."

"I was composing a letter to my dear friend and mentor, Zenyatta," Genji responds immediately without batting an eyelid. "I instinctively protected the contents because I was writing about strictly private matters, namely," he hesitates for a barely noticeable fraction of a second, "the way I feel about Dr. Ziegler, and how much I wish Zen was here to meet her himself."

Hanzo says nothing.

"See, unlike you, I have always been capable of admitting my emotions, both to myself and to the world."

"And look how it ended for you," he mutters with morbid amusement.

Genji completely disregards his remark. "If your current distress means you finally gained at least one of these abilities, then I cannot express how happy I feel for you."

For a brief moment, he wishes he could even think about punching his brother in the face without an immediate, nauseating wave of guilt. "There are no _feelings_ ," he grits out instead. "But recently I have been finding myself wanting more than just…"

"Yep, details, let's not," says Genji briskly after Hanzo makes a vague gesture in an attempt to convey his meaning. "I'm afraid that if you find yourself wanting more after you bang someone, then assuming the thing you want is not an immediate re-do, but rather something like cuddles, it means you might have fallen for them. I am sorry if this damages your self-image, brother."

There is another long moment of silence as Genji sways back and forth on the balls of his feet, smirking, while Hanzo stares at him, trying to gather his wits and figure out an appropriate response. He comes up with nothing, and he does not find it in himself to argue further, anyway, so he just stares back at Genji, exhausted and strangely hollow.

Genji's smile gradually wanes. "But if you're right about McCree, and not just deluding yourself as usual… Do you have a reason to think he is not interested in anything else? Because don't take this personally, but I don't really trust your judgment in these matters."

"He used the term," Hanzo pauses, makes a disgusted face and forces the word out, " _'fuckbuddy'_. Does that answer your question?"

Genji hisses through his teeth. "Shit. I'm sorry. That sucks. Do I need to find McCree and remodel his face?"

Hanzo snorts uncontrollably and has to fight a sudden outburst of hysterical laughter. "No. Thank you, but that will not be necessary."

"Are you sure?" Genji cracks the knuckles of his left hand against the prosthesis. "Because as much as he is a dear friend to me, I have punched him in the face in the past and I am absolutely prepared to do it again."

He will _not_ have a bout of hysteria in front of Genji. "I appreciate your brotherly concern, but I am not a slighted maiden. I am as much at fault for the current situation as he is. I will deal with it myself."

"Very well," sighs Genji, theatrically disappointed, "but the offer still stands. McCree is too good with the gun to get much practice these days and I'm sure his hand-to-hand skill could use a refresher. I would thoroughly enjoy kicking his lazy ass."

Hanzo exhales and manages to summon a crooked smile of his own, feeling suddenly and inexplicably better. "If you really want to punch McCree that much, do it without looking for excuses. I can fight him myself if I need to defend my honor."

"Shame," says Genji and stands up. "I know you hate my advice, but this situation could spectacularly backfire, and I see two options. Either you cut off all contact apart from the purely professional and wait until your crush passes, which will be a long and shitty experience, but better for you long term, or you learn to live with what you have and hope he eventually realizes how awesome you are and falls for you in return. That would be massively unhealthy and I absolutely don't recommend it, unless the sex is really, _really_ good."

For a brief, crazy moment Hanzo is tempted to look deep into his eyes and explain just how how good it is. At length. With detail. The only thing that stops him is that he is genuinely afraid that Genji, leagues ahead of him in this particular field of expertise, will immediately retaliate in a way that will make him regret ever trying to shock him in the first place.

"Oh god, it's that good, isn't it? I never want to see you make that face again." Genji winces and squeezes his eyes shut, only to reopen them, suddenly serious, a moment later. "It is a really bad idea to quietly pine for a fuckbuddy, though. I don't actually want to watch you have your heart broken the first time you genuinely fall for someone."

Hanzo rolls his eyes and stands, ready for this conversation to end. "For the last time, I am not falling for anyone and there will be no broken hearts. You need to stop reading romance novels. The arrangement is acceptable and I will be fine once I get used to its limits, and when the losses outweigh the gains, I will simply end it. But for now," he smirks, "yes, the sex is _really_ good."

Genji makes a retching sound. "See if I come help you the next time, if that's how you repay me for the continued life advice. Are you feeling better?"

"I am," he admits, and it comes easier than expected. "Thank you. I will make sure to apologize to Athena for the damage."

"I'm glad I intervened before you let the dragons completely loose," says Genji wryly. "A fire would be very counterproductive to the renovation effort. And now excuse me, but I have a letter to write."

* * *

After cleaning up the evidence of his lapse in control — the soot comes off easily, but the thermally warped surface he cannot do anything about — Hanzo collects his finished laundry and walks back to his room, feeling a lot calmer, if perhaps a bit wistful. He is welcomed by the familiar sight of a blinking amber light.

Oh. The comm, which he angrily left behind.

 ** _13:24 [McCree]_** Okay, I get it, you don't. I really do need to talk to you, though.

 ** _14:02 [McCree]_** This is kind of hypocritical after you accused me of running away, you know.

 ** _14:47 [McCree]_** I might have fucked up and I want to explain, but I am NOT doing it over the comms.

 ** _15:20 [McCree]_** well, fuck you too, then

He frowns at the display, feeling vaguely guilty — he did not plan to ignore the messages. Not consciously, anyway. Or maybe he did, but not for quite this long.

 ** _15:55 > _**I was busy and left the comm in my room.

 ** _15:57 [McCree]_** happens to the best of us

 ** _15:57 > _**We can talk now, if you wish.

 ** _15:58 [McCree]_** nope. drunk now amd typing is hard

Isn't it a bit early for that?

 ** _15:59 > _**Why are you drinking in the middle of the day? Where are you?

 ** _16:00 [McCree]_** super secret hidign spot, you wont find me. let me drink in peasce

As much as he would prefer to ignore it, the thought that McCree's untimely drinking session might be related to the unacknowledged messages is a bit too persistent, and he sighs, considers his options, and makes a call.

It takes four attempts for McCree to pick up. "What do you waaaaant," he groans, exaggerated and drawn out and evidently very drunk. "I'm busy."

"I am sure you are. Where are you?"

"Nowhere," says McCree, drunkenly obstinate, even though Hanzo can clearly hear birdsong in the background.

"You are in the reserve again, aren't you."

"Nope. Not even close."

It is the least convincing lie Hanzo has ever heard from him, and he sighs, considers showering before going out, decides it might be wiser to postpone it if he is going to be handling someone potentially too drunk to stand, and heads for the door again. "I will be there shortly. Do not go anywhere."

He ends the call without listening to the incoherent protests from the other side.

* * *

The experience in herding drunks gained during Genji's rebellious teenage years proves useful in collecting McCree from the reserve. He must have been sitting in the monkey place again; Hanzo finds him halfway down the overgrown path, staggering through the thorny bushes with an almost-empty bottle in hand. He wordlessly ignores half-coherent protests as he confiscates the bottle, shoves it into a patch of grass for later retrieval, takes McCree by the waist and arranges his arm around his neck.

"Told you not to come," complains McCree above his ear. "I was done anyway. Could've come down on my own. Don't need your help."

At least he is not a combative drunk, allowing himself to be manhandled with ease, so Hanzo pays no mind to his mumbling and focuses on trying to get them both past the scrub without ripping their clothes to shreds.

Eventually, McCree stops protesting, sighs and leans on him heavily. "You smell nice."

"I reek," Hanzo informs him coolly. He does; he can smell his own pungent sweat even through the cloud of bourbon that surrounds them.

McCree chuckles. "You reek nice."

"Shut up and try to walk straight," instructs him Hanzo, amused despite himself.

They get past Genji's clearing and start maneuvering down the stone stairs, before McCree attempts to talk again. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I screwed up. I didn't mean to— I thought—"

"Be quiet," Hanzo interrupts, sharply squeezing his wrist for emphasis. "We can talk after you have sobered up. I am not interested in drunken blathering, and now I need to focus."

Blessedly, that silences McCree for good, and Hanzo manages to get him down the steps and to the Watchpoint with no injuries and only minimal damage to dignity. McCree's luck runs out at that point, because they run into a beachwear-clad trio of Lúcio, D.Va and Tracer right in the entrance, and McCree makes a jerky movement like he's trying to dodge out of sight. It is several seconds too late for it to have a chance to work, and Hanzo has to tighten his grip and brace himself to prevent them both from toppling over.

"What the hell happened to him?" asks D.Va incredulously, at the same time as Tracer lets out a sigh of "oh no, Jesse" and makes an aborted gesture, as if wanting to prop McCree up from the other side.

"Coping mechanisms, I assume," replies Hanzo drily and encourages suddenly slackened McCree to keep moving.

"Hmpf," she responds, judgmental, and marches past. Lúcio hurries after her with an apologetic smile, but Tracer lingers behind, worry on her face.

"Haven't seen him plastered like that in a while. Thanks for dragging him back in. Do you need help?"

"Go away, Lena," mutters McCree, and gets a scoff and and archer's salute in response.

Hanzo gives her a respectful nod. "I will be fine. He is cooperating. Mostly. Have fun at the beach."

"We will," she brightens. "Come join us if you feel like it. Water's kind of chilly but the weather is fab! We've all earned a bit of a rest today, I think."

"Perhaps," he says, with no intention to do anything of the sort, and she gives him a wave, casts a last worried look at McCree and leaves.

McCree becomes less cooperative after that, attempting to pull out of Hanzo's grip once, twice, before finally stopping to a halt in the middle of the corridor. "I can walk m'self," he grumbles, and he does not look like he is going to immediately fall over, so Hanzo lets go. "Where're we goin'?"

"To the kitchen." Hanzo gives him a guiding prod. "You need to hydrate before it is too late, unless you enjoy suffering from massive hangovers."

Fortunately, drunk McCree is not entirely devoid of reason, because after one more irritated grunt he starts walking in the correct direction. Hanzo hovers at his side just in case, but his assistance is only required to pull out a chair and gently maneuver McCree into it.

"Drink this," he orders, putting a large glass of an electrolyte drink in front of a pouting McCree.

"Why do you care?"

It sounds offended, and it reminds him of Genji way too much, and suddenly he's had enough. "You are not here on vacation, McCree," he snaps. "Talon can attack again tonight, or tomorrow, and you will be useless with a hangover. Get yourself together."

McCree shrinks in the chair, subdued, and picks up the glass.

* * *

The last stage of their journey goes smoothly afterward, with not even a token protest from McCree as Hanzo escorts him silently through the corridors and towards his bunk. The only person present in the barracks is Reinhardt, snoring thunderously in his too-small bed, so Hanzo waits as McCree clumsily pulls off his boots, decides against suggesting that he undresses, and turns to leave as soon as he is safely horizontal and not exhibiting tendencies to move.

"Do you need anything else?" he asks over his shoulder, halfway to the door.

For a moment, he thinks he might have heard a mumbled "you," drowned out by the snoring and so quiet he is almost sure he imagined it, and he freezes and turns for a moment, but McCree does not move and does not speak again, so after a moment of hesitation, Hanzo walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am weak and I can't resist writing Shimada dialogue.


	9. Truth

The next morning is… strange. Hanzo is inexplicably irritated from the moment he opens his eyes, and after he briefly turns his face into the pillow and imagines he can detect a faint trace of McCree's scent, his mood only gets worse. It is somewhat similar to sexual frustration, but not quite like it, a nagging feeling of lacking something undefined but important, and if it was really just frustration, then Hanzo could easily deal with it, but he does not feel inclined toward it in the slightest. He gets out of bed instead, hoping that the foul mood is merely a fleeting remainder of a forgotten bad dream.

The hope is vain, and he ends up staring fixedly at his breakfast in order not to project his state of mind at anyone else in the kitchen. It is almost as if McCree's alcoholic excesses of the previous day left himself with an undeserved hangover, instead. Or maybe he _is_ hung over, actually; his bed had felt cold and unwelcoming yesterday compared to the evening prior, and no matter how much he tried to clear his mind, it kept looping back to the memories, to the rush of desire and endorphins and the comfortable warmth of McCree's embrace, and the contrast made him feel miserable enough that not wanting to waste the last of his good sake, he had to unearth a bottle of cheap _shochu_ and take a few disgusting gulps to finally wrangle his brain into submission. It should not have been enough to cause a hangover, but it is the most sensible explanation for the low spirits he is in today.

The thought of hangovers makes him wonder how McCree is doing, and whether his attempts to rehydrate the man after the ill-advised drinking session in the sun had any mitigating effect on the consequences he must be suffering.

Perhaps he should break off this arrangement, after all, if it is going to be detrimental to both of their mental states in such a way.

Now _that_ thought spoils his mood completely and ultimately, and when Hana Song approaches the table he has been occupying, she receives a glare of such unintentional intensity that her complete lack of reaction leaves Hanzo reluctantly impressed.

"I'm assuming you're not interested in being a guest in my vlog," she says instead, calm and businesslike, inclining her head briefly towards the recording drone hovering over her shoulder, "but I thought I'd ask anyway. Just in case I misjudged you."

"Your assumption is correct," he replies drily. "I would rather not appear in social media, and I would also advise against featuring people actively targeted by assassins in your videos."

D.Va's sudden grin is as startlingly wide as it is irreverent. "Eh. Your brother agreed very easily, and I've been told that his family likes him even less than you. And those assassins must be shit if they didn't manage to get you over so many years. I'm not scared."

He can only scoff at that: Genji has always loved showing off, whether or not it was sensible to do so. "I believe the rest of the clan is still convinced that he is long dead, and even if not, I am pretty sure I have outranked him on their list of enemies quite some time ago. Their assassins are, admittedly, woefully incompetent, but either way, I am not interested in providing amusement to the masses."

"Thought so," she nods. "I bet you'll change your mind when you see how many fans he's going to get after my video goes live. Every single one of you likes to show off."

Hanzo wants to ask whom exactly she means by that, but she is already out of the room, presumably in search for another victim. He briefly regrets not asking whether Winston agreed to the idea, and has to remind himself not to fall into the trap of judging by appearances again — he really should know better after spending months in the company of people like Lúcio, Winston or McCree — because the girl may be bubbly, rather full of herself and terrifyingly fond of pink, but she is also a professional and a soldier. Difficult as it may be to accept, she has earned his trust. For now.

"Oh yeah," she peeks from behind the doorframe, "I've decided I'm joining. You clearly need someone in the frontline to protect your asses, and Reinhardt can't be everywhere at once."

"Welcome to Overwatch," he says politely.

She throws him a salute and leaves with a bounce in her step that suddenly makes him feel old.

* * *

Hanzo survives the next few hours by means of repeating the previous day's disastrous training. This time his body does cooperate, the dragons do not stir, and the satisfaction that comes from a task well executed finally somewhat improves his mood. By the time Winston trudges into the gym with the resigned expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else, Hanzo almost does not mind the company.

"I have been lectured about my dietary habits and sedentary lifestyle," Winston sighs heavily, unprompted, "and by the time she started using phrases like 'irreversible changes' and 'expected lifespan', I had no choice but to immediately agree to whatever she wanted. Angela, I mean."

Hanzo, in the middle of a _kata_ , can only grunt in acknowledgement.

"At least I can read while doing this." The treadmill, either custom-made or modified to handle Winston's considerable mass, creaks ominously but holds. Hanzo winces at the sound of the machine starting up — he would have preferred silence — but the alternative is going out to the reserve, and considering the recent events, he is even less likely to be able to focus out there than he is by staying here. Fortunately, the whir of the engine and the rhythmic thuds of Winston's footsteps are monotonous enough to eventually fade into the background, and Winston thankfully does not attempt any further conversation, engrossed in whatever he is reading.

The next interruption comes from Winston's comm, but by then Hanzo is finished with his routine and stretching, and he does not mind anymore.

"Finally, I have a valid excuse to stop," grins the gorilla widely, stepping off the treadmill with significantly more enthusiasm than he exhibited getting onto it. "Miss Song has recorded a video that features some of our members, and I need to approve it before it's released to her channel. But first, I think I have earned my lunch. Are you going to finish anytime soon?"

Hanzo rises from the floor with a nod. "Yes. I will join you as soon as I have showered. Are you not concerned that too much publicity might get us the wrong kind of attention?"

Winston hums. "It is risky, but not any more than chasing Talon through London in the middle of the day. To be honest, our actions so far have been more than enough for the UN to invoke the Petras Act, and the fact that they limited themselves to issuing public statements means that for some reason they don't want to do it yet. Our apparent cooperation with the MI6 might also be working in our favor."

Hanzo chuckles. "How are the renovation works going?"

"These people are actually quite competent, although agent Newman still hasn't replied to my question about how many of them are operatives," Winston says wryly. "But if the arrangement is working," he shrugs, "then I guess I can live without that knowledge. The medbay, from what I hear, is almost complete. Angela can be quite the motivator when she cares about something."

They both inadvertently glance at the treadmill and share a look of mutual understanding before they part ways.

* * *

"It's not a reveal, more like a hint," says D.Va, swinging her legs from the kitchen table, "since you guys need to stay low profile for now. We made it look like I'm just messing around with friends — the Petras Act doesn't forbid any of you from having friends, right? — but well, if I suddenly start hanging out with famous figures from Overwatch and showing up on your missions, it won't take a genius to guess what's going on. I don't think that's bad. You need all the positive PR you can get, and between my subs and my fans you should get a lot of new supporters."

Winston nods from his usual seat on the floor, a mug of tea in his huge hands. "Technically, you don't fall under the Petras Act anyway, and we have gotten away with so much that I don't think a pop star's vlog entry is going to tip the scales. No offense meant, of course."

"Oh, I am totally a pop star," she says matter-of-factly, "but I made sure not to include anything that could trigger any politicians regardless. You'll see for yourselves anyway, I left the footage in the hands of my editor and they're super fast, so I should be able to give you a preview as soon as McCree stops hogging the common room. What is he _doing_ in there, anyway? It's been like two hours!"

Winston clears his throat. "We have agreed to keep it a secret for the time being, so all I can tell you is that he is in a very important videocall."

Hanzo realizes he has stopped, listening, in front of an open refrigerator, and shakes himself back into action.

"Oooh, secrets," D.Va says mockingly, entirely unaffected by Winston's serious tone. "I bet it's related to why he's always writing something. He really writes a lot for a man who looks and acts like he's cosplaying Clint Eastwood."

"Perhaps he is composing letters," Hanzo offers, turning towards the the group and casting a meaningful look at Genji, who sits up straighter, alarmed.

Dr. Ziegler, silent until now, sighs and leans forward on her elbows. "Sadly, I don't think Jesse has any living family. He has certainly never mentioned any relatives for the entire time I've known him. Of course, he might be writing to friends, or someone he is in a relationship with."

Genji's distressed expression is immediately replaced with glee and waggling eyebrows, and Hanzo gives him his best withering look.

D.Va's comm pings before either of them can follow up on the unspoken threats, and she pumps her fist, jumping to her feet. "He's done! I'm going to have a quick chat with my editor and if you give me your comm numbers, I'll message everyone when the video is ready. I promise it's going to be awesome."

"You now have full access to Overwatch communication channels, Agent D.Va," Athena chimes in from the speakers. "You should find appropriate entries in your comm unit."

"Thank you! I'll just let you know in the general chat, then, assuming you've got something of the sort."

"There is an official general communications channel and there is another, unofficial but also available to all agents," Athena confirms with the slightest trace of humor in her usually neutral voice. "It has seen a lot of use since the early years of Overwatch, and its archives are a vast source of information that may cause you to reconsider joining."

"Oh my _god_ ," D.Va gasps with delight, "are you telling me there are _years_ of Overwatch banter for me to catch up on?"

"We don't really use it anymore," says Genji, already tapping on his comm, "and most of those who did disappeared after the dissolution of Overwatch. But I'm sure I can dig up some dirt on McCree if I search far enough back. Sending a test message now."

Everyone's but Hanzo's comms chime.

"Looks like it's working," says D.Va. " _'Cyborg Ninja'_ , really?"

Hanzo cannot resist a jab. "Subtlety was never my brother's strong suit," he remarks and pulls out his own comm. The channel, innocuously named 'Misc', is indeed in the list just under 'General'; he has never given it a second glance, until now.

**[Cyborg Ninja]:** **@all** McCree sucks, +1 if you agree

**[McCree]:** Ain't that the truth.

Genji starts laughing, already typing a reply.

**[Cyborg Ninja]:** let's see who is the first to accidentally send a private message to the channel this time!

Hanzo immediately opens the settings to change the colors and fonts to something different enough that he can never make _that_ mistake.

* * *

**[ (star emoji)D.Va(bunny emoji)]:** my latest video is ready, everyone interested in a preview please come to the common room within the next ten minutes!

Hanzo briefly considers not going. He should probably seek out McCree instead, since he did promise to listen to whatever the man wanted to say yesterday, but a certain spiteful and vocal part of his mind insists that it should be McCree doing the seeking out — especially after Hanzo had to suffer escorting his pathetic, drunken self around the Watchpoint — so he closes the book he has been reading, sticks it under his armpit and leaves.

He is not the first to arrive. As soon as he enters the room, he cannot resist a glance and sure enough, McCree is there, half-lying on his usual sofa with a datapad propped up on his knee, chewing an unlit cigarillo, frowning and typing. D.Va and Reinhardt are present as well, the girl curled up in the corner of the three-seater couch instead of her pillow nest and the knight taking up the rest of the space, and they are watching what looks like a game tournament of some sort. The contrast between their frames is so absurdly stark — a giant man with a lion's mane of white hair next to a pixie girl in eye-watering pink — that Hanzo spontaneously reaches for his comm to take a picture.

After he has taken one, another impulse makes him turn the camera on McCree. He looks… good. Better than he has any right to, considering his overindulgence on the previous day. His beard is neatly trimmed and his hair looks freshly washed, he is wearing dark jeans and a black dress shirt that is only slightly less form-fitting than the red henley that still haunts Hanzo's memory, and he looks so stupidly _appealing_ , lounging on that sofa, that Hanzo takes a photo before he can even think about what he is doing. He chastises himself immediately and decides to delete the picture and pretend that it never happened, but it is actually a good picture, well-composed and aesthetically pleasing, and he hesitates with his thumb over the button long enough for Genji to sneak up on him and whisper an emphatic "nice" over his shoulder.

Hanzo flinches and closes the comm like a reprimanded schoolboy. His murderous glare ineffectually bounces off his accursed brother's already retreating back.

Genji proceeds to circle behind McCree's sofa, craning his neck in an appallingly unsubtle attempt to peek at whatever he is writing, and McCree calmly switches the display off, giving Genji the most coolly unimpressed look Hanzo has ever seen outside of his own mirror. It is a good look, a perfect mix of disdain and disbelief with just a hint of threat, and Hanzo decides to strategically forget about the photo for now, sits in the nearest armchair and allows himself to enjoy the scene.

His brother, systemically immune to scorn and any form of rebuke, leans on folded arms against the back of the sofa, not deterred in the slightest. "What are you writing, McCree? We had a discussion earlier trying to figure it out."

"Memoirs," McCree deadpans. "So when I finally get to fakin' my own death, I can sell 'em for a pretty penny and live the rest of my days in the lap of luxury. Now go away before I lose the train of thought."

With a sigh, Genji jumps over the sofa and lands cross-legged in the spot that once had been Hanzo's. "You should share a few passages with us, then, instead of guarding it like a love letter."

"Considerin' the things I've written about you? Nah. I don't want a blade through my kidney," McCree drawls and turns the datapad back on with a final warning glare.

"I might just steal them instead, now that you have piqued my curiosity," Genji says lightly. "I am a ninja, after all."

McCree does not grace him with another glance. "Good luck breakin' through military-grade encryption."

Genji smirks. "I am sure I could guess your password easily enough. In fact, I already have a list of likely candidates." He cuts a look at Hanzo, the smirk taking on a definite edge of malice, and Hanzo can only reply with a flat stare and be grateful that McCree is focused entirely on his writing.

"I can't decide whether you guys are flirting or not," comments D.Va, not taking her eyes away from the screen.

"McCree is not my type," Genji replies breezily, "and he doesn't flirt anyway. He goes straight for the… throat."

That tiniest of pauses is just long enough for Hanzo to grind his teeth, silently promise his brother a swift and cruel retribution, and glance over at McCree in hope that he did not notice or process the suggestion. McCree raises his head and levels Genji with a narrow-eyed, considering stare before suddenly looking straight at Hanzo, and rather like a deer in the headlights, Hanzo finds himself unable to look away.

He is saved by the arrival of Dr. Ziegler, who unwittingly does him a double favor of distracting his brother and walking through the line of sight, cutting off the eye contact and snapping the sudden tension, and shortly after that the remaining agents arrive and the show begins.

* * *

The video starts in a dark room, with Hana's face illuminated by the weak light of the camera and taking up most of the screen.

"Hey guys," she says in an exaggerated whisper. "Do you know that feeling you sometimes get when you're alone in a room and the lights are off, and you feel like someone's in there with you? Because I'm feeling like that _right now_."

The camera slowly pans out, showing a barely visible silhouette of D.Va's upper body against the darkness, and suddenly there is a low thrum that Hanzo recognizes instantly, and a human-shaped array of green lights comes to life behind her.

D.Va turns, gasps, and the video feed cuts off in a burst of static.

"Wow. That was scary," breathes Mei.

"Right?!" squeals D.Va, and Hanzo does not have to look at Genji to know that he is preening.

Tracer's introduction is positively domestic in comparison, in the kitchen over a bowl of oatmeal, and after that, the video becomes a mishmash of slice-of-life scenes with Genji and Tracer showing off as shamelessly as they can to the accompaniment of Lúcio's enthusiastic commentary. Genji is clearly undecided between playing the mysterious silent ninja and demonstrating the flashiest of his skills, and Tracer uses the chronal accelerator so much that Hanzo starts wondering about the battery life of that thing. It is pure silliness, really, a lot of bad jokes and laughter and blatant misuse of equipment, and Hanzo still thinks it is foolish to flaunt the fact that they are breaking the Petras Act, considering the flimsiness of their cover, but judging by the amusement of everyone else in the room, the chances of the video getting a positive response among D.Va's fanbase do seem to be rather high. He supposes that she is right: nothing in it could ever be interpreted as any sort of Overwatch-related activity.

"Shame I'm still a wanted criminal," drawls McCree after the video finishes and the spontaneous round of clapping dies out. "Could do a few gun tricks for you."

"Aw, Jesse, don't worry, you don't have to show off, I'm already a huge fan of yours," Tracer cooes and blinks over to the couch to envelop him in an awkward bent-over hug. McCree starts and angles the datapad away in a manner quite similar to the way Genji had tried to hide his letter. Surely he is not really writing diaries…? "After we get reinstated," she continues, letting go and patting him on the shoulder, "I'm sure we can get them to lift the charges. Nobody's going to prosecute a hero!"

"Are you kiddin'? First of all, I ain't a hero," mutters McCree, cradling the datapad protectively to his chest. "Secondly, the world _loves_ prosecutin' heroes. Makes normal folks feel better about themselves. Just look at what happened to Reyes."

"I'm surprised you didn't include Hanzo in your movie," Winston adds from the side. "I have witnessed his training routine today and I must say, a lot of it looked very cinematic."

"My brother used to enjoy demonstrating his skills," Genji cuts in before Hanzo has a chance to respond, "before he grew a stick up his ass and forgot how to have fun. You should recruit them both for your next vlog, Hana. If identities are a problem, we could always cover their faces. McCree can pull off a very convincing masked vigilante look, and Hanzo—"

"I am not going to dress up for people's amusement," Hanzo interrupts with a bit less force that intended, distracted by the mental image of McCree as a masked vigilante.

"Really?" Genji asks in an exaggeratedly surprised tone that immediately sets off alarms in Hanzo's head. "Because I remember _someone_ enjoying themselves in the role of Kamakura Gongorō Kagemasa about thirteen years ago."

The _traitor_. "That was _art_ ," growls Hanzo, offended by the very comparison, "and it was a long time ago—"

"Oh shit, you used to be an actor?!" Lúcio exclaims with enthusiasm, and Hanzo has to explain at length that it was merely a brief family-inspired hobby and he is not in any way interested in acting.

"If you can convince Hanzo to put on a _kabuki_ costume and makeup, I'm absolutely gonna go full Zorro for your next video, mask and cape an' all. Hell, I'll even shave," says McCree with a wide grin. Hanzo realizes with some alarm just how _glad_ he is to see that smile again.

D.Va laughs and jumps to her feet. "I'm game, but someone else has to do the convincing, because I need to go pack before the flight. I think I'll post the video after I'm back in Busan, I don't want to miss the first reactions. Genji is so going to get cosplayed!"

"Cosplayers can never be a match for the one true cyborg ninja," replies Genji serenely, "but they are welcome to try."

"I guess I'll be goin' too, then," McCree declares suddenly, standing up with the datapad in the crook of his elbow. "I'll be down in the firin' range if anyone needs me." There is a strange emphasis to the way he says the last part of the sentence and his eyes flicker briefly to Hanzo's and away, and just as he leaves the room, Hanzo's comm vibrates in his pocket.

The display is still showing the photo, which by now he can admit to himself he will absolutely not be deleting, but there is also a notification of new mail; it's from McCree, it's encrypted, and the subject says "Do NOT open this anywhere near Genji". Hanzo closes the comm immediately, shoves it into his pocket, produces some sort of a half-baked excuse and, fully aware of the weight of Genji's piercing gaze, hurriedly leaves the room.

* * *

_(For the sake of complete honesty: I started writing this yesterday. I might have had a bourbon or two for courage, and then it occurred to me that I really shouldn't write this while drunk, since it's going to be bad enough even without the booze on top. The rest was silence, and a very regretful hangover.)_  
  


Hanzo decides to pour himself a cup of sake as well, before he sits down on the bed to continue reading.  
  


_I figure this conversation isn't going to happen in person anytime soon because you're rightfully pissed at me, and some of the things I need to tell you I would probably never manage to say out loud anyway. I'm going to write a letter instead and take the risk that you're pissed enough to delete it without reading. (Even if you do, I can always resend it until it sticks. You're not the only stubborn bastard around here.)_

_What I need to say is, first and foremost: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel like I didn't care. I was trying to save myself from feeling like_ **_you_ ** _didn't care. Somehow it never occurred to me that by avoiding opportunities for you to be an asshole to me, I was actively being an asshole to you. I owe you an explanation, and I swear this time I'm going to try to be honest._

_It started after our first mission together. Sure, I thought you were hot from the moment I first saw you, but it was after Numbani, after you kept stealing my kills with that goddamn smirk of yours, that I realized it was more than that. "Well," I thought, "falling for Hanzo 'I have exactly one emotion and it's the disdain I feel for you at this very moment' Shimada is a guaranteed fucking way to get my heart broken," so I told myself I wasn't all that much into you, that you were a massive stuck-up dickhead, and that it would pass once I got to know you better. Then I actually got to know you better, realized it wasn't going to pass anytime soon, and told myself that maybe if I could get you to agree to a one night stand, I could get you out of my system. I didn't think I'd have much luck — you were into guys, that much I knew, but I thought I'd have more of a chance with an iceberg — but with the help of some liquid courage I finally asked, and of course you told me to get lost, and I was about ready to go through the process of waiting out a crush when you suddenly came back to me instead._

_I thought you just wanted a blowie. I told myself that I was fine with that, that it was a win-win, that I would gain a memory to jerk off to for the rest of my life and get a little revenge on you by totally blowing your mind. Well, the joke was on me, because you blew my mind instead. I walked in there expecting the cold yakuza lord to take his due, dust off and leave, but instead for a moment I got to see you without all the asshole exterior. I never thought you could be open and honest like that, and you were so fucking gloriously into what I was doing, I did everything in my power to keep you in there for as long as physically possible because I could not get enough of you like that._

_You asked why I ran off after. I know you've never been in love in your life, so you probably won't understand, but I swear I fell in love with you right then and there, and no matter how much I told myself I didn't care, I couldn't deal with the thought of you going all cold and superior on me again. So when you pushed me away after I caught you falling, I admit, I just ran the fuck away to salvage what was left of my heart._

_I tried to stop after that. Told myself that I needed to pull back and that I didn't want to get invested, especially after you offered to return the favor about as enthusiastically as if you were paying off a loan shark. I actually managed for a while, I firmly entrenched myself in denial and I was doing great, and then you came to me again and offered me my deepest, dirtiest fantasy on a silver platter, and there was no way on God's green earth I could ever refuse that, so I thought: fuck my heart, I didn't need it anyway._

_For what it's worth, I woke up that night and saw you literally sleeping in my arms, and I almost stayed, despite everything… but then I imagined waking up and receiving one of your cold "why are you still here" stares and after everything that happened, I thought that might actually kill me._

_(Did you know your eternal bitchface goes away when you're asleep? You look like a different person that way.)_

_I swear on Reyes's grave I never intentionally lied to you. To myself, yeah, I did, all the time, but you, I was honestly convinced you didn't care about anything other than sex, and I acted accordingly out of self-preservation. And then you wrote that line about expectations and made a face like I stabbed you with a rusty knife, and turned my entire pyramid of rationalizations upside down._

_So I guess the conclusion of this word vomit is that no, I'm not only interested in sex. I still don't know how far you want this to go, but I'm absolutely willing to go there with you. I know you don't love me, but you don't hate me either, and unless I misinterpreted our last conversation — in which case I may have to fake my death much sooner than I intended — you want more than just an occasional fuck. The thing is, I'm greedy, and now that there's a chance I might get something that I really want, I don't want to put you off by trying to grab too much. So I'm going to send this now, before your nightmare of a brother gets a peek and mocks me about it for another ten fucking years, and go shoot things, and if you want to tell me what_ **_you_ ** _want out of this, you know where to find me._

_Or you can come and put an arrow in my head. That would also make for a pretty clear message._

_See you in the shooting range._

_JM_

  


Hanzo sits for a moment, unmoving, then fetches the sake, drains an entire cup in one go and reads the whole letter again.

It takes two more readings, several long minutes of staring at the wall, and the remaining contents of the bottle before he takes a deep, somewhat shaky breath, stands up, and leaves for the range.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beloved reader, commenter and motivator [caycepollard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/caycepollard) is directly responsible for Hanzo 'I have exactly one emotion and it's the disdain I feel for you at this very moment' Shimada.


	10. Substitute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If graphic descriptions of sex acts are not something you're into, you can skip the entire second scene without any detriment to the plot.

Considering McCree's apparent past in black ops, his preference when it comes to weapons is questionable: Hanzo can hear the huge, custom revolver he insists on using not only through the range's soundproofing, but two corridors and two closed doors away. The Peacekeeper is louder than Hanzo's silenced sniper rifle — not that it would be even possible to put a silencer on this monster — but, admittedly, it is also similarly lethal. McCree does not usually need to fire twice.

_Bang._

Hanzo has no idea what he is going to do or say, but he keeps walking regardless.

_Bang. Bang._

He should probably have at least a semblance of a plan before he looks at McCree and his mind goes blank, as usual.

_Bang._

Or at least he should settle on one emotion, instead of switching between anger, joy, doubt and hope every couple of steps. Now that he knows the extent to which he is wanted, underneath all the emotions there is also a steady undercurrent of desire, which makes him wish he could just walk in there, push McCree against a wall and say everything that needs to be said exclusively through his actions.

_Bang._

Unfortunately, after that letter, talking appears to be inevitable. He pauses outside the door, squares his shoulders and raises his chin: he used to be yakuza, after all, and he has participated in much harder negotiations, with a lot less honesty involved.

_Bang._

McCree swings out the cylinder, ejects the shells, inserts a speedloader, closes the gun with a flick of the wrist; a perfect rhythm, one-two-three-four, almost too fast to track the motions, finished before the used cartridges stop rolling across the floor. Hanzo had thought McCree was unnecessarily showing off on the first day he had seen him shoot, before he realized that the method was not only flashy, but also perfectly efficient. The spin with which McCree holsters the Peacekeeper definitely qualifies as showing off, though.

"Hey," he says without looking in Hanzo's direction, taking the hat off and setting it down on the central workbench. "Wasn't sure you'd come."

Hanzo resists the urge to fold his arms defensively and sticks his hands in his pockets, instead. "Of course I have."

Just as predicted, all reasonable thought escapes his mind when they finally make eye contact. He takes three more steps and halts at a safe distance of five or so meters; he is going to be uncomfortable standing there in the middle of the room, but the only seats available are the two utilitarian metal chairs at the opposite wall, which he would have to walk past McCree to get to, and considering the fact that this brief eye contact alone was enough to make his breath shorter, it is probably best to keep the safety margin.

It strikes him suddenly that right now, in the expensive black shirt, well-groomed, well-dressed, armed with a deadly weapon and for once gravely serious, McCree actually looks every bit like the special agent he's supposed to have been, and that quiet buzz of want gets just a notch more intense.

"Not a very practical way to dress for a gun range," he can't resist pointing out.

McCree huffs, glancing at his rolled-up sleeves. "I know. I wasn't sure if I had time to change, so I decided not to risk it. Just in case you were a really fast reader."

"You could have changed before sending the letter."

"Yeah… I kinda promised myself I'd send it immediately after I was done, just to give myself no chance of chickening out."

 _Stop making inane conversation and get to the point_ , growls his internal voice of reason, and he would, if he had any idea what the point even _was_. "Why the range?" he asks instead; as long as they keep talking, something is bound to eventually come out of it.

"Neutral space," McCree answers without hesitation. "Enough privacy to have a chat and enough risk of someone walking in to prevent gettin' distracted."

"Distracted?" he repeats, and of course the understanding comes just a second too late.

"Yeah." McCree smiles crookedly. "Well. Dunno about you, but I know I— y'know what, gimme a sec." He turns to look at the camera in the corner. "Athena, sweetheart, would you mind turning off your feeds for a while? Say, half an hour?"

"I am required to monitor the range activity in case of an equipment malfunction or injury," comes the immediate answer, and Athena's disapproval is perfectly audible even despite the tinny quality of the speaker.

"I swear I won't touch my gun." McCree unstraps the holster and deposits it onto the table next to the hat. "Here. And as for other injuries, I, uh, can't speak for Hanzo, but I don't plan on throwin' any punches or inflictin' any other damage."

"There is still a considerable risk of fire," she adds mercilessly.

Hanzo is sure he did not imagine the judgmental tone of _that_ remark, so he clears his throat and interjects before McCree can reply. "I understand your concern. I do not think either of us would object to turning the monitoring back on if the smoke detectors were to be triggered."

"Very well," says the AI after a long moment of consideration, sounding distinctly a disappointed parent. "I am disabling video and audio feeds from the range and the adjoining corridor for the next hour. Please remember that the range is a public area and basic hygiene should be maintained at all times. Goodbye."

The green light under the camera fades out. Hanzo opens his mouth and closes it, at a complete loss for words, and after a moment of ringing silence McCree bursts out laughing.

"Poor Athena," he manages eventually. "I wonder how many requests to turn off monitoring in various places she's had over the years. I'm gonna have to ask her later."

"She did jump to conclusions rather quickly," says Hanzo weakly, reeling both from the shiver-inducing implication and the speed with which the situation took a turn towards the absurd.

"Can't blame her. I'd start jumping to conclusions too if I had to keep sending drones to clean up the jizz." McCree lets out a final chuckle, shakes his head and looks at Hanzo with a crooked smile. "Now that we made her think we're fucking in here, I kinda feel like we're wasting the opportunity by just talking instead."

Hanzo swallows and makes sure to keep his voice even and his face impassive. "We have an hour. Talk fast, and you may yet have a chance to make use of it."

McCree's smile falters, then returns, warm and suggestive. "Well, now you just completely derailed my train of thought."

Truthfully, he has derailed his _own_ train of thought, little as there was to it. "You are not supposed to get distracted."

McCree folds his arms tightly, leaning against the wall next to the bench. "Right, back to the matter at hand. I couldn't help but notice you didn't promise anything about not punchin' me."

"Resolving personal issues through violence has not worked for me particularly well in the past," says Hanzo drily. "Although I must admit that the temptation is considerable."

McCree nods, sighs and looks down, exaggeratedly contrite. "Alright. Lay into me."

Hanzo takes a deep breath, finds nothing to say, lets it out, pulls his hands out of his pockets and makes a vague, but expansive gesture which, he hopes, reflects at least some of his outrage. "Why would do this?" he demands, finally. "To me and to yourself? Why would you not just — I don't know, flirt? Show your interest like a normal person?"

"I dunno," mutters McCree, still staring at the floor, and then raises his head and huffs. "Actually, that's a lie, I do know. Probably. I guess. But I don't wanna give you sob stories or try to justify my shit. Let's just say it's because I'm fucked up."

"No." Hanzo decides he needs to sit down, it there's going to be a story; he marches decisively past McCree, ignoring the tightening in his stomach, pulls out one of the chairs, drops into it and folds his arms. "I want to hear your reasons, I do not care if they are 'sob stories' or not. Let me be the judge of that."

McCree groans loudly and tips his head back against the ugly gray tiles. "It's a dumb fucking story, alright? And the more I think about it, the dumber it sounds." He sighs. "Fine. You read my file, right?"

"What is available of it, yes," Hanzo confirms carefully.

"Right. The censored bits ain't important right now. So I was a stupid kid in a gang that made a mistake of getting annoying enough for Overwatch to take interest. I survived the crackdown despite my best efforts to the contrary, I got detained, and I was about to be tried by the adult criminal court, which in my case meant a life sentence. For whatever reason, Commander Reyes of Blackwatch took interest in me and came to talk to me personally — of course bein' the dumb punk that I was, I told him to go fuck himself — and long story short, he recruited me instead of lettin' my ungrateful ass rot in jail." McCree takes a deep breath and holds it for a long while before exhaling in one big gust. "The man was a good twenty years my senior, my direct CO, the second biggest honcho of Overwatch, _and_ the person solely responsible for basically saving my life. So, of course, as soon as I stopped waitin' for the other shoe to drop, I fell head over heels in love."

Hanzo remembers the conversation with Genji and immediately decides not to mention it.

"Naturally, I was about as good at hiding emotions as you'd expect at that age," continues McCree sarcastically, "and naturally, my unit was about as understanding about it as you'd expect from a bunch of reformed criminals. Which is to say, they made my life hell, and only fucked off after I learned not to rise to the bait. Which, lemme tell you, took a good couple of years."

"Did he know?" asks Hanzo quietly.

McCree lets out a short, humorless laugh. "This is Commander Reyes we're talkin' about, the man knew everything. Of course, he never acknowledged or mentioned it, because he wasn't an idiot. I was a good asset, and if he had ever given any indication that he was aware of my severely unprofessional feelings, he would have had to immediately report to Morrison and get me relocated to another unit. Reyes wasn't the kind of man to give up his best operative so easily. Anyway," he looks at Hanzo with a wry smile, "I honestly thought that after that dumb infatuation and the amount of shit I'd been given for it, I was cured from unrequited crushes for life. Turns out, not quite."

"But you could have said something this time," Hanzo protests. "I am not your commanding officer, nor are we part of any official organization. There cannot be fraternization regulations when there are no regulations at all!"

"Yeah. I could've. And then I'd have to live with you sneering at me every time I saw you—"

"I would _not_ —" he starts, offended.

McCree cocks an eyebrow. "You sneered at me when I asked to blow you, y'know."

Hanzo sputters for a moment. "Because it was a vulgar question! And completely unexpected!"

"And if I asked you to, I dunno, go out with me, what would you have said? C'mon now. Like you wouldn't've told me you weren't interested. _Coldly_."

Hanzo opens his mouth to retort just to close it, huff and sag in the chair.

McCree nods with satisfaction. "So, even assuming you wouldn't look at me like I was a piece of trash, at best you'd start completely ignorin' me and it would be like Reyes all over again, or, worst case, you'd leave Gibraltar altogether. Oh, and Genji would have another reason to mock me for fucking _years_ , and by the way, we're good friends and all, but I don't forgive that easily. Now that he's obviously pining for Angela, I'm puttin' together a plan of great and terrible revenge."

"So what you are telling me, essentially," Hanzo says slowly after a moment of silence, "is that all of this has been Genji's fault."

McCree pauses, blinks and grins, sudden and wide. "Yeah. I mean, he wasn't the only one, and by far not the most vicious, but— yeah. All his fault. You now have a fantastic opportunity to guilt trip your brother, for once. Congratulations, use it wisely."

Hanzo cannot help himself: he starts chuckling, shaking his head. "This is absurd. All of it."

"Yep," says McCree, still grinning. "And my hangups actually turned out to have solid strategic value. Instead of inevitably getting my ass kicked for being honest, I got your attention by offering to blow you, and after that it was just a matter of time before you realized what a fine specimen I was. And now," he drawls, tucking his thumbs behind his belt, "look at you, sitting here with me, ruining your reputation and scandalizing our resident AI."

It is the exact kind of smile and tone of voice Hanzo's body has been very successfully conditioned to react to, and it reacts immediately, with a warm spasm in his lower belly and an electric thrill shooting across his skin. He cannot even sneer at that declaration, because, as bold as it is, it is also unfortunately true: McCree is a fine specimen, indeed, and not only they are here in the gun range discussing interpersonal relationships, but Hanzo is now also subject to a number of unfortunate physiological reactions, and he may have a problem soon if he does not immediately distract himself.

"In the name of continued honesty," says McCree wryly, "I feel obliged to inform you that I pop an instant boner when you look at me like that."

Hanzo instinctively glances at McCree's crotch, realizes what he is doing a millisecond too late, attempts to get his expression under control, fails and briefly hides his face in his hands, groaning. "You have a disastrous impact on my self-control."

"Can't say I mind, especially if I'm not the only one poppin' a boner as a result."

"You could at least pretend you did not notice," he grouses, resisting the impulse to cross his legs — it is too late now, anyway.

"Kinda hard to miss when you sit with your legs wide like that. Sorry, darlin'." McCree pushes away from the wall, still grinning, crosses the space between them in two long strides and extends a hand in a wordless invitation; Hanzo raises his eyebrows in his best blandly questioning expression and hopes against all odds that McCree overlooked the interested twitch in his pants.

"C'mere." The hand makes a beckoning motion. Hanzo finally takes it, if only to get rid of the sight of a decidedly bulging groin right in front of his face, and finds himself pulled into a kiss, hot and hungry and _good_.

"I figure," McCree murmurs, nosing along Hanzo's undercut and inhaling deeply, "we still have at least fifty minutes to live up to our tarnished reputations."

He fails both to repress a shiver and to stop his hands from wandering up McCree's back. "I thought we were supposed to be talking."

"We can continue later. I'm in no mood for serious talkin' right now and," Hanzo sucks in air when McCree's hands slide down to his ass and bring their hips together, "I can't help but notice that neither are you."

"Reprobate," he mutters, but he cannot dispute the facts — his blood is already on fire and half-formed images of what might now happen are crowding his mind — so he pushes up and into a rough and demanding kiss, hands roaming, and when he captures McCree's lip with his teeth and refuses to let go, the world spins briefly and he finds himself with his back to the wall.

McCree stills for a second and Hanzo can feel the shiver that runs through his body.

"Jesse?" he asks, craning his neck slightly in an attempt to look at his face. "Is something wrong?"

McCree exhales and looks at him with darkened eyes. "I'm fine, I just— I can't get over the way you respond to me, from zero to full throttle, just like that. Drives me crazy, every time," he breathes and kisses him again, even deeper and dirtier than before, and Hanzo cannot stop himself from arching into him and the hard line of heat he can now feel against his hip. "You wouldn't believe the things I want to do to you."

Hanzo is not devoid of imagination, and it immediately takes up the challenge, greatly aided by the way Jesse is pressing into him with his whole body. "I think I can guess. You want to fuck me," he says slowly, almost managing to keep his voice even and carefully emphasizing the profanity, and absolutely relishes the violent shudder he gets in response.

"I really do," Jesse admits with almost no hesitation, and this time Hanzo has to bite his lip and try to compose himself. He has always been the one taking and never receiving, has never even considered it the other way around; even if he was interested, a _kumichō_ could never allow it to happen, and neither could an outlaw with assassins forever one step behind. There was never really a reason to think about it before, the concept too far outside the realm of possibility to be interesting, but suddenly it's not only plausible but _within reach_ , and the mental images come easily. He has already knelt before Jesse and he enjoyed it greatly. It is only really one step further than that—

"Damn," says Jesse, low and full of wonder. "You _like_ that idea, don't you."

"What if I don't?" He attempts to keep his voice steady, but even he can hear that his denial is nowhere near convincing. "I have never been on the receiving end. What if I would rather fuck _you_ , instead?"

Jesse hums in honest consideration. "Never much liked the idea of bottoming for a stranger. For you? I'd be willin' to try. However," the hands on Hanzo's back slide down to his ass and knead, suggestive and shameless, "I have it on good authority that I'm a decent top, and if you ever want to verify that claim, darlin', just say the word. I am more than ready to blow your mind again."

"You have thought about this, I see," Hanzo says somewhat breathlessly.

Jesse grins, unabashed. "Oh, yes. _Extensively_."

"Just how many filthy fantasies have you come up with?"

"You have no idea," Jesse mutters wryly and leans in to kiss him again, one hand on the small of his back and the other sneaking past the waistband of his sweatpants.

Hanzo closes his eyes and lets himself really think about it. It is much easier than he would have expected: it's enough to remember what his few lovers seemed to enjoy the most, imagine the scene, replace himself with Jesse and put himself in the place of the recipient of his attentions — and there is really no misreading his response to _that_ image, the surge of pure want so powerful he goes briefly numb from it, and in that instant, Hanzo makes a decision.

"I don't suppose you came prepared for this eventuality," he murmurs when Jesse's mouth breaks away from his and starts wandering down his neck.

Jesse freezes and raises his head. "What?"

The look on his face is so unexpectedly amusing that Hanzo finds himself smirking. "You heard me," he says louder. "Did you bring supplies?"

Jesse swallows and stares at him in disbelief.

"I would like to make you an offer," Hanzo continues, the smirk threatening to become a grin, "but it requires a few necessary items which I do not have on my person." Being able to shock Jesse into silence turns out to be satisfying beyond measure, and his dumbstruck expression is a sweet, sweet revenge for the proposition that started it all, but subtlety is obviously lost on him at the moment, and Hanzo's patience is already wearing thin. "Jesse McCree, would you like to fuck me? Right now?"

That finally gets him a reaction, a full-body shudder and a ragged inhale. "I— yes, but— are you crazy? You want to do it _here_?"

"So you do have the necessities," breathes Hanzo and shudders as well when he hears no denial. "If you came prepared for it, then why are you so surprised?"

Jesse finally regains his wits and grins somewhat bashfully. "I might've hoped that something would happen later. God. You nearly gave me a heart attack. Of course I want to, you know I want you — but I'm not doin' it in a goddamn _gun range_!"

"Why not? I know you want it. I can _feel_ that you want it," Hanzo purrs, pressing against Jesse and his very obvious arousal.

"Because—" Jesse falters and closes his eyes briefly, "because this is a public space, we have little time, and— didn't you say you've never bottomed before?"

"We can lock the door." Hanzo removes himself from Jesse's embrace, marches to the door and decisively presses the button. "There. And as for the time," he smirks, "I don't think either of us can last anywhere near long enough to worry about it."

Jesse does not smile, rooted to the spot, tense and barely breathing, and Hanzo decides he needs a push. "I know you like the idea of having power over me," he says with a knowing smirk, walking back, and yes, there's the reaction he hoped for, the flaring nostrils and balled-up fists. "You liked me on my knees," he continues, dragging his hands down Jesse's chest. "I am sure you imagined bending me over something. Like this bench."

"Fucking hell— are you trying to kill me? Christ." Jesse grabs his arms and spins them around, presses him into the wall with all his weight, grabs his chin with the bionic hand and turns his face forcefully to the side to talk directly into his ear. "Yes," he growls, "I want to bend you over and fuck your brains out, but I ain't doin' it here and I ain't doin' it on your first time, you _horrible goddamn tease_."

Jesse is no match for him when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, they both know that he can put Jesse on the floor in two seconds flat, and yet for some reason he not only allows the manhandling, he _welcomes_ it, in a shuddering burst of the same visceral need that made him drop to his knees and invite Jesse to take his mouth. "I do not _care_ ," he groans. "Do it."

"Well, I care," Jesse says roughly, tense like a coiled spring, "because you ain't done this before and your first time needs to be slow and gentle, and it's going to be neither if we do it right now."

"What about me makes you think I would want slow or gentle?" Hanzo demands, exasperated and incredibly frustrated. "Do you think I am a virgin? I assure you that I was not at _all_ gentle with the last man I bent over and fucked, and I did not hear any complaints afterwards." Jesse is definitely shaking now, the metal fingers on Hanzo's jaw trembling and his breath coming in short puffs above his ear, and Hanzo, drunk on their combined lust, pushes further, almost sure of victory. "You seem to want to fuck me. I _definitely_ want you to fuck me, and I don't want slow or gentle, I want you, now. I do not see what the problem is."

"I just want it to be good for you," says Jesse through gritted teeth.

Hanzo loses the rest of his patience. "Why would it not be? Five minutes ago you declared that you are good at it! What is stopping you? Do I need to beg you for it? Do you _want_ me to—"

Jesse's hand suddenly covers his mouth. "Shut up," he snarls. "Fine. I'm tired of bein' the fucking voice of reason."

Hanzo pulls the hand off with ease. "It does not become you anyway," he replies, thrilled, and welcomes the sting of a biting kiss.

* * *

Jesse at the end of his rope is breathtaking in his intensity. He pulls Hanzo's clothes off with ruthless efficiency, manhandles him into facing the wall and presses against his back, still fully clothed himself, quiet but for the sound of his breathing, and Hanzo jerks sharply against the unyielding body caging him against the tiles when he feels the first touch of wet, cool fingers between his legs.

"Would've warmed the lube up if I had time, but since you wanted here and now," says Jesse into his ear, voice almost steady, "you'll just have to deal with it, sweetheart."

"It's fine," he exhales and rests his forehead against the cool surface of the wall, breathing deep, trying to fight through his body's instinctive reaction to the slow, insistent intrusion.

Jesse hesitates for a moment. "Too much?"

"Are you joking? It is not nearly enough," he growls in response — he would push back against Jesse's hand to demonstrate his point, were he not largely immobilized — and Jesse laughs quietly, coaxes his head away from the wall to rest against Jesse's shoulder, wraps the bionic arm tightly around his chest and slowly, steadily breaches his body further. The initial shock passes quickly and there is already a hint of pleasure in there somewhere, fleeting and vague and frustratingly out of reach, and even without that remote promise of bliss he wants to be pushed harder. "I can take more than that," he challenges eventually and Jesse says nothing, but he tightens the one-armed embrace and on the next slide, one slick, probing finger becomes two.

Slowly, Hanzo's awareness narrows to the points of contact between their bodies. The gray tiles and industrial lights around them have long disappeared, there is only the arm looped around his chest, the warm body at his back and the cold wall in front of him, the quick breath across his temple and the maddeningly insufficient touch; his body's reactions make no sense — it shied away from one finger, but now it screams for more with what has to be three — and he wants so much that his teeth are chattering, and he thinks he might explode or simply go out of his mind.

"Just do it," he demands finally, "stop teasing me, how long are you going to—"

"Shut up," growls Jesse. "I ain't small, and I ain't hurting you just 'cause you're impatient."

"I will hurt _you_ if you don't hurry up," he threatens. "I am ready, I was ready _an hour ago_ , just fuck me already."

Jesse's hand stills. "Okay. Fine. Just one thing. You _have_ to tell me to stop if it hurts."

"I will, I swear it, just—" He breaks off with an involuntary wounded gasp because the fingers withdraw all at once and the sudden empty feeling is much worse than the intrusion was in the first place, and Jesse disappears from where he was plastered against Hanzo's back, making him feel unsettlingly cold and bereft.

Jesse picks up the Peacekeeper, drops it onto the chair and swipes an arm through the remaining contents of the workbench, sending them indiscriminately to the floor. "Lean here, on your forearms. Legs wide," he instructs, stepping aside, voice clipped and roughest Hanzo has ever heard it, and the instinct to resist what feels like commands is strong enough that for a moment he pauses and looks up into dark, focused eyes. Jesse swallows visibly and opens his mouth, undoubtedly about to come up with another considerate and entirely unnecessary question, and that is enough for Hanzo to regain his footing; he smirks, walks past him proud, naked and hard, and bows against the table, shamelessly arching his back.

"Jesus, I wish you could see yourself," Jesse whispers hoarsely behind him.

Hanzo hums, closes his eyes, flexes his muscles with the sole intent to hear Jesse's breath falter, and reaches down with one hand to give himself a moment of relief. "Better hurry. I will not be kept waiting for long."

Jesse straightens; there's an unmistakable sound of a belt buckle being opened and Hanzo cannot help but shiver. "Your choice," he says with a calmness that would almost be convincing if his voice wasn't so husky. "You can jerk off, I ain't gonna stop you. Or you could wait," that sound Hanzo recognizes too, the crinkle of a wrapper being ripped apart, and the thrill of anticipation becomes almost too much to bear, "leave it to me, and let me fuck you senseless, instead."

Hanzo reluctantly withdraws his hand and supports himself on his elbows as instructed. "I am still waiting for you to deliver—" he starts and trails off in a series of shaky gasps, silenced by the sudden shock of Jesse sliding hot and huge _inside him_.

"Yeah?" Jesse murmurs, hovering above him, supporting himself on the metal palm against the surface of the desk. "You were sayin'?"

It's not painful, not exactly — it would definitely have been painful, had Jesse not insisted on the lengthy preparation — but the difference between Jesse's fingers and cock is vast enough that for a long while he cannot get his lungs back under control. Jesse waits patiently, breathing hard but not moving, and strokes his back soothingly with the free hand. "Warned you I ain't small," he says, voice tight. "Take your time."

"I am fine," he manages after a few deep breaths.

If he had any capacity for shame left, he would be ashamed of the sound he makes when Jesse moves, nudging in with careful, small thrusts. It's searingly hot and exquisitely frustrating, so much more than fingers and yet so far from enough, until Jesse is finally wholly buried within him, panting hotly across the skin of his back. "That's it, sweetheart," he rasps, and Hanzo barely registers the kiss between his shoulder blades. "You okay?"

The discomfort is largely gone and his body is confused by conflicting stimuli, but the promise of pleasure is still definitely there; Hanzo experimentally flexes his hips and they both groan. "Yes. Move."

Jesse holds him by the waist and starts moving for real, languidly and shallowly at first but each time he withdraws just a little farther, pushes just a little deeper, and the first real, deep thrust has Hanzo nearly choking. So this is it — so this is _why_ — the unexpected jolt of pleasure scatters what remained of his thoughts, and for a moment he just gasps helplessly for air.

"Gotcha," Jesse murmurs triumphantly and repeats the exact same motion over and over, hands tightening on his skin, and with each thrust the burst of pleasure reaches deeper, spreads further, until Hanzo realizes he's making desperate little moans on every breath and tries to stifle them against his arm.

"Don't," Jesse groans and slows, sudden and jarring, to Hanzo's incoherent sound of protest. "Don't do that. Be loud for me, sweetheart, please."

"Fine," Hanzo bites out, pressing his forehead to the cool surface of the bench, "but _don't stop_."

"I won't, not again," promises Jesse breathlessly, returning to the rhythm, but now Hanzo's body has decided it needs more and that incredible electric sensation is muted, nearly there, but just out of reach. "More," he demands, flexing his fingers and groaning in frustration when Jesse's hands shift on his skin, but the rhythm does not change. "Come on. You promised to fuck me senseless," he growls, and nearly bites his tongue when Jesse swears, grips his hips with enough force to leave bruises and grinds into him hard, and yes, there it is, the burst of pleasure so intense it steals his breath and the last of his wits away.

"Your wish. Is my. Command," Jesse growls back, punctuating every second word with a thrust powerful enough to punch the air out of his lungs, and Hanzo forgets how to speak shortly after that, but it's fine because the sounds Jesse is making are even less human, and the moment Jesse cries out his name and reaches to wrap a hand around him, he is more than ready to fall apart together.

* * *

Somehow, after Jesse helps him clean up and dress, they end up in a tangle on the floor, Jesse sprawled against the wall and Hanzo between his legs, leaning against his chest.

"Satisfied?" murmurs Jesse, as if they both didn't just come shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Sore," he replies, closing his eyes with a sigh, and grunts with disapproval when Jesse's chest starts inconveniently shaking with quiet laughter.

"You sure know how to compliment a man."

Hanzo hums lazily and relaxes, spent, calm and blissful. The arms around him tighten and after a moment of hesitation, Jesse rests his chin on the top of his head. This is nice, he thinks drowsily, sated and strangely comfortable, considering their recent activities and that he is sitting on the floor. He turns his head to the side, just a bit, and inhales Jesse's scent, cotton, tobacco and fresh sweat, and that is nice too.

Jesse inconsiderately breaks the silence. "So," he drawls, "we have about ten minutes. I spilled my guts, you know pretty much everything I could tell you. Your turn."

Hanzo sighs: he could get addicted to this post-coital bliss and he is not in a hurry to end it. "What do you want to know?"

"Not much. Just," he can feel Jesse shrug, "you know what I want, but I still don't actually know what _you_ want."

If he only knew what he wanted, himself. "I…" he starts, pauses, sighs in frustration. "I do not know."

"I figured," says Jesse lightly. "How 'bout I help you. I ask a question, you answer, yes or no. Deal?"

"Deal," he agrees, relieved.

"Alright. Do you want me to leave you alone and never mention this again?"

Hanzo elbows him angrily. "No. Don't ask stupid questions, you know very well I do not."

He gets a chuckle for that, not contrite in the slightest. "Always nice to get a confirmation. Do you enjoy the sex?"

"I thought that was also exceedingly obvious," he mutters, and rolls his eyes when Jesse does not proceed with another question. "Yes. As I have just _vocally_ demonstrated."

"Do you want me to hang around after?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to hang around even without the fucking?"

Hanzo rubs his beard, considering, thinking of the kitchen and the tea, the armory, the missions, the pleasant rhythm to their conversations. "…Yes."

"Do you love me?" Hanzo takes a slow breath, but Jesse sighs and continues before he can gather his thoughts. "Sorry. I know you don't, that one was below the belt. Do you mind that I—"

"Let me answer," he demands angrily, extracts himself out of the embrace and stands up. "Do not presume to know what I feel."

Jesse raises both palms apologetically and motions at him to continue, but the silence stretches out damningly as he struggles to arrange his thoughts.

"It's really okay," says Jesse quietly.

"I said, let me talk," he snaps, unable to bear Jesse's badly concealed disappointment. "I do not— It's not like there is a label somewhere that I can read, or an equation where I can input all parameters and have an answer come out. I have never— How do I _know_ if it qualifies as 'love'?" He turns away and starts pacing, agitated. "I can tell you what I _do_ know. I like the way you look and smell, for example. I find your voice appealing, even with the outrageous accent. I enjoy your company and your jokes, and fighting alongside you, and sitting together drinking tea, or sake, or whatever swill you choose to drink. I want you enough to dream _and_ daydream about you and I have never found pleasure in sex before you. I trust you enough to tell you my secrets and let you— and _ask_ you to fuck me, and I want to fall asleep and wake up next to you. You are handsome, clever, competent and annoying, and I would prefer you were a part of my life rather than not. Is this enough yet? Is there a checklist somewhere of things that I should feel?"

Engrossed in the ranting, he does not notice that Jesse stood up too until he is captured mid-step.

"It's okay," smiles Jesse, and it's not a grin this time but a real smile, warm and genuine. "It's all I need. Hell, it's more than I need. Shut up already, I get it," he laughs when Hanzo attempts to continue the tirade, and holds his face between his hands. "If it ain't love, it's an acceptable substitute, okay? It don't matter what you call it, I'll take it, no complaints."

Hanzo allows himself to be silenced with a kiss, then sighs and rests his forehead against Jesse's collarbone. "I do not know if this is enough. Most likely not."

"It is, sweetheart." Jesse' arms wrap around him and tighten. "It's enough for me."

* * *

"T minus three minutes," says Jesse, slowly rubbing a bearded cheek against his undercut. "Any last questions or revelations before I have to explain to Athena why there's a wet stain under the bench?"

Hanzo makes a face and peeks over Jesse's shoulder. "It might not be in her camera's field of view."

"I checked. It is."

"Then you can only hope that the camera's resolution isn't good enough. It is an old piece of equipment, after all."

"She won't say anything even if she notices," says Jesse grimly, "and I'll spend the rest of my days wonderin' whether she knows and judges me for it or not."

Hanzo smiles and succumbs to the impulse to wrap his arms around Jesse's waist. "I am already in her bad books for nearly setting the gym on fire. She might correctly assume that I am the one responsible."

"You set the gym on fire?" Jesse asks, incredulous.

Hanzo opens his mouth to dismiss him, then remembers he is still supposed to be honest. " _Nearly_. I was upset about the conversation on the transport and the dragons picked up on my mood."

Jesse laughs. "When I'm upset, I get drunk. When you're upset, you set things on fire. I think my coping mechanism is healthier, sweetheart."

Suddenly, Hanzo realizes he has one more question left. "Speaking of drinking — the sake. It was from you, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Jesse smiles ruefully. "You don't have to tell me that was stupid."

Hanzo narrows his eyes. "Did you try to get me drunk to be more receptive to your offer?"

Jesse groans. "See, this is why I asked Mei for help. I just wanted to get you something to celebrate with, and then I realized that givin' it to you before asking the question would probably make you think exactly that. Did you like it at least?"

"It was the best I have had in a while, thank you. I… may have finished it while reading your letter."

"I'll get you another one, and I promise there'll be no more letters. Although I might still make you inappropriate offers from time to time," Jesse grins, and Hanzo cannot resist pulling him into a kiss.

They escape the range and Athena's wrath with thirty seconds left on the clock, and for the first time in twelve years, Jesse forgets his hat behind.

  


Art by [motetus](https://motetus.tumblr.com/post/176999945594/something-very-heavily-inspired-by-mataglaps)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The porn wasn't even supposed to happen, but I wanted to end with a bang.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/matawrites) if you ever want to say hi or send a prompt!
> 
>  
> 
> Fun fact: This story was initially meant to be PWP, and was inspired by two artworks. One of them was an image of [Blizzard's own Beach McCree](https://kotaku.com/overwatch-fans-cant-decide-if-mccree-is-hot-or-not-1797698029) that serves as my wallpaper, and the other was Paexie's gorgeous and very NSFW ["A Favor"](https://www.patreon.com/posts/mchanzo-favor-2-13505875) (it's patron-only, but it's the best way you could ever spend $3!).


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